


I'll Do It For You

by wickedg



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Baby I Want Your Sex, F/M, First Time, Gen, Prompt Fic, it's a boy!, it's a girl!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 74,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedg/pseuds/wickedg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU - R+L=J Eddara Stark, raised in the shadow of her younger, more beautiful sister, and older, charismatic brother, was sent off to the Vale to be fostered alongside Robert Baratheon. Now, with the war over and her younger brother, the last male heir to Winterfell, off at the Wall, Eddara (please, call me Ned) assumes responsibilities as the Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and the false mother to the bastard babe Jon Snow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Somewhere In Between

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Ned Stark returns from the war with her bastard son in her arms. Benjen has already left for the Night's Watch, and won't break his word, so Ned is forced to become lady of Winterfell, while fulfilling all the duties of lord.

Ned spurs the horse on, babe in arms, and they enter the gates of Winterfell again, at long last. Home. Familiar faces look up as the lady Stark returns from the war, triumphant for the realm, yet heavy with loss and despair for her family. Father, Brandon, Lyanna-they’ve never known her to be as particularly buoyant as her older brother, nor as beautiful as her younger sister, but before she was sent to the Vale, the people of Winterfell certainly knew her to be as serious as her lord father.  
  
And her arrival home marked no difference, it seemed, save the babe swaddled against her.  
  
Ned looked around, grim faced, and yet felt relief at the familiar sight of home. She had been brought up to expect to be sent off to make her own home with a lord husband, and for many years had been living in an unexplained exile in the Vale, away from the family that had been lost too soon. _Benjen_ , she thinks, lips twitching into a semblance of a smile. _Benjen, young, sweet Benjen-the pack survives still._  
  
Except it isn’t Bejen waiting for her, but Maester Luwin instead. And though he recovers quick enough, Ned sees his look of disappointment at the silent bundle resting in her arms. She doesn’t blame him, really-she’d had done the same, and yet all she can hear are her sweet sister’s last words.  
  
 _Promise me, Ned._  
  
“Lady Eddara,” he welcomes, experienced, tentative arms reaching for the child as she dismounts, handing her destrier off to a stableboy. “You are most welcome home, my lady.”  
  
“I am pleased to be home, Maester. I’m certainly not made for the Southron heats, nor their traditions.” She’s never been one to indulge too extravagantly, but Ned can practically taste the bath that she dreams waits for her, a thought as sweet as the pillow that rests in her old childhood rooms, ready to sleep for a week.  
  
But something’s amiss. Her eyes dart around the yard, certain he’d be there.  
  
“Where’s Benjen?” she asks. Perhaps he is too busy being Lord to welcome her back?  
  
Luwin shakes his head sadly, and gestures her to come inside. She does so, a young boy-dreaming to be a squire, she muses-padding softly behind them, ready to help her out of her armour for what she hopes to be the last time. Being best friends with Robert Baratheon had helped her acquire the skills needed for the battlefield, and the death of her brother and father had certainly helped her cause to join the fighting and not sit on the sidelines (though Robert had always teased her about having their foster father wrapped around her “noble little finger”). But with Robert on the throne and her given leave to return home, Ned was ready to surrender her arms for good.  
  
Something she cannot, sadly, see happening any time soon.  
  
“What do you mean he took the Black? The Wall?” she grumbles not so softly as soon as the Maester’s words have sunk into her weary mind. Ned hasn’t raised her voice much since the child entered her arms, and yet even so the babe seems to recognise her distress and begins to cry out for comfort.  
  
“My lady...” Luwin begins handing the child back to her, and Ned’s still not quite sure what to do. She made a promise. The child is hers, after all.  
  
“I shall need a wet nurse, Maester Luwin,” she says, softening her tone, cradling the unsettled child in her arms. “I’m afraid my body is too battle weary to nurse him.”  
  
It seems acceptable enough, and Luwin nods, leaving her in the room. Ned tries to remember what Wylla had done, tries to wrap her head around being the Lady of Winterfell with her brother’s defection to the Wall, and tries most not to remember her baby sister lying in that ocean of blood, sweat stinging her eyes, sword painted red, as she picked up the small boy from her dead sister’s limp arms, trying not to collapse in grief.  
  
It wasn’t until she and Howland Reed started to head back did Ned begin to dwell on the dangerously bitter feelings of anger at Lyanna. Perfect, beautiful, young Lyanna. Selfish, fucking, favourite Lyanna. With a gulp, Ned pushes those thoughts down again-she has no need for them. Not now when she has the North to take care of, a child she promised to take in as her own, and...and a family to mourn.  
  
The boy settles back into sleep after a gentle rocking, and she thinks on him. He really _does_ need a name. Wylla had tried to goad her into picking one, but Ned takes stock in the way of the Free Folk, knows that she should wait until he’s at least three years of age before taking a name. Although now that they’re safe off the Kingsroad and have a Maester on hand...well.  
  
 _This is my child now,_ she thinks fiercely, trying not to think of what name Lyanna would use. _Her_ child.  
  
“Jon,” she murmurs down at the sleeping boy. “Your name is Jon. Jon...Snow. My baby. _My_ child, Jon.”  
  
“Jon is a fine name, my lady.” She hadn’t even heard Luwin come back-she must be more tired than she thought. A plump young woman stands by his side, and Ned offers up Jon to her. Eleonore, Luwin tells her, has been a wet nurse only once, but is very capable and serious about her new charge. So serious, it seems, that she starts to pepper Ned with questions about the birth itself, and if her fighting might have pushed the child around the womb, and how soon he took to the teat, and-  
  
“Lady Eddara had the child during the war, Eleonore.” Luwin interrupts to Ned’s relief. “Young Jon went straight to a wet nurse, I imagine.” Ned just nods in silent agreement, a basic truth that isn’t a lie; as soon as they left the Tower of Joy, riding with her sister’s and Ser Arthur’s body and sword, Ned had found Wylla, and promptly foisted young Jon onto her, getting back to business at hand in Dorne.  
  
Eleonore nods, curtsies, and leaves with Jon already latched to her teat, and Ned just feels...she just feels _so_ tired. She rubs her eyes, and looks to the Maester she’s known all her life, and gives him a rueful smile.  
  
“Tell me, Maester, for I did not learn the Lord’s duties in the Vale-what needs to be done now that I am the Lady of Winterfell?”  
  
The bath will wait.

* * *

  
It’s strange to her, to see how quickly she has these men’s loyalty. She has seen it many times watching her father, watching Lord Arryn in his seat at the Vale, yet she herself never thought in her wildest dreams as a young girl to have command over such a house.  
  
It’s her name, Stark, first and foremost that commands the respect they readily show her, but Ned is nothing but determined to prove herself to them, to restore House Stark to it’s winter mantle. Robert and Lord Jon write to her sometimes (Jon more than Robert, of course-Robert never had much affection for the quill, she remembers fondly, thinking on the fumbling letters of love she had gently, yet unsuccessfully, tried to steer toward a more elegant prose written for her sister), dolling out advice and news, but her biggest help comes from the ladies of House Mormont.  
  
Despite being a quick study of her Lordly duties and accomplished on the battlefield to boot, it's the words of Maege Mormont’s house, _Here We Stand_ that Ned finds herself repeating when she feels her self-doubt creeping in on her decisions. For as much as she is a wolf, Ned looks at her tiny pack of two, and knows that for now, she must be a bear, standing tall and large to protect her cub and her lands.  
  
It has not been yet a year since her return to Winterfell when the first proposal of marriage comes from the South. It is a mighty jape, she thinks, for who in the South would want to find a bride in the North, let alone a bride with a bastard?  
  
It is nearing the end of a council with Vayon and Luwin that she finally hears the proposal, and she has never felt more foolish. Vayon’s face turns varying degrees of red, while Luwin’s remains masterfully impassive, handing her the parchment in an outstretched hand.  
  
“Come now-have you forgotten that I am still a lady?” she attempts to jest, but the look on Vayon’s face tells her that yes, he has. She frowns, and tries not to feel disappointed in herself. She was not meant for this, she wasn’t supposed to be in charge, she was supposed to marry some lord and-  
  
“It is but a jape, I am sure.” she finds herself saying, the words easily flowing from her mouth. “I do not think the delicate-” she makes a show of looking at the parchment for the name, “ _Humfrey_ of Hightower would be able to handle these Northern climes.” she pauses, hoping for some reaction, some reply, and when there is none, continues. “Aye, these Northern climes, nor myself.”  
  
They give her a look, and Luwin finally speaks.  
  
“My lady...no doubt you would make quite the lady wife, but I feel it would be unwise to think of marriage from the South. Southron lords, they...I fear they would not respect your station, your responsibilities to your lands and your people. A Northern match would-  
  
“A Northern match would defy and divide the houses I lord over. The Umbers would protest, the Mormonts would crow over my woman’s weakness, and all would vie for the seat of Lord of Winterfell, and what of me? What of House Stark?” She takes a deep breath. “I may not be my father, but there _will_ always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

  
“But, my lady-what of an heir?”  
  
Ned’s dark eyes flare with anger, and she opens her mouth to speak harsh words upon the man her father called steward when Luwin interrupts, calming as ever.  
  
“Lady Eddara is still young, Vayon-mayhaps one day a match from Dorne will be given careful consideration.”  
  
The men both look to her, and she schools her expression into one of stern calmness. It would not do to look like a girl having her doll taken from her. She clears her throat to reflect on this and placate them, when Jory all but bursts into the room.  
  
“My lady-we have had news of a deserter.”

* * *

  
It couldn’t be better timing, Ned thinks, as her party rides out to where the former brother of the Night’s Watch is being held, resigned and slightly bloodied from his struggles to free himself. House Umber had been visiting and without much coaxing, eagerly came out to watch the dishonoured brother face death.  
  
They don’t expect her to beckon Jory over to her with Ice, nor do they think she’ll actually go through with the deed as she recites her oath to King Robert, first of his name. But as the steel from Valyria strikes clean through the man’s neck, they cheer loudly, this unannounced test on her qualities and abilities easily passed, and for one time only, Ned describes how she managed to get around Ser Arthur Dayne’s Dawn. She doesn’t take much pleasure in the tale, but knows her bannermen haven’t seen her in combat, knows that even though they would have responded to her call before this, that a show of strength is what really wins them over.  
  
She’s physically sick over it later that night in her rooms, the wounds still fresh of having been too late to save her sister, her strong, beautiful sister, felled by childbirth, but Ned knows that not all men are honourable, and not all honourable men are won over by a name alone.  
  
The next week she gets a raven from Maege Mormont who berates her obvious show of strength, but who also supposes that if Ned is to keep wearing her skirts around Winterfell, that it was probably a wise idea in the end.  
  
Ned burns the letter and finds herself tucking herself into Jon’s bed that night, cuddling her son against her chest, wishing to be a wolf again, missing her pack.


	2. Reaching Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is a bit short-I've never really attempted a WIP before, and so this is a bit of an unfamiliar process. I'd like to be regular with updates, but I've kinda been hesitant to give up what I have so far without having stuff to "fall back on" so to speak.

It’s been six years since she returned home, and though it hasn’t all been smooth sailing, no one can say Ned doesn’t take her careful ruling seriously. While the South openly despair of her, she has the North firmly standing behind her, and it’s clear for all to see that Lady Eddara Stark is winter born again. Rumours that swirl South of the Neck don’t speak of her beauty and grace, but rather her just rulings and skill with a sword.  
  
They whisper also, of course, of her bastard son. They jest about how the weather has given her a frozen cunt, unable to lure even the most power-hungry men into her bed, leaving her with no heirs, no paramours, no husband.  
  
Ned knows these rumours, hears these rumours, and though she dislikes a gossip, cannot help but want to answer them personally. None from the South would dishonour themselves to marry an unwed mother and to stand aside while his lady wife ruled her lands, and none from the North dare approach her for her hand (especially not after Lord Bolton had made his...attempt), and so what is a woman to do?  
  
 _Promise me, Ned._  
  
She knows enough of men, has lived over half her life with Robert Baratheon after all, to know that a maidenhead does not always matter. And with her long face, dark grey eyes and not... _too_ comely appearance, Ned knows her lack of maidenhead would mean naught to those who would seek a warm bed.    
  
It’s the dishonour of having birthed a child out of a marriage that seems to make men balk at the idea of making her their bride. Her promiscuity running amok about Winterfell, wooden sword in hand, laughing and giggling amongst the godswood. Her gall at acting like a common whore on the battlefield. Her Northern men might dote on the boy, appreciate his good humour and eagerness to become a true knight, but it is still something they know she will not move on, knowing that it is only a matter of time before she makes him a true Stark and her heir.  
  
And though there are times when she catches herself reacting to certain men amongst her bannermen, Ned knows what she cannot do. _She promised._ For underneath it all, it might very well be that her cunt is frozen, as they say, for Ned has never had the time nor pleasure to lay with a man.  
  
Whilst in the Vale there had been a page whom she had noticed looking at her one time, but under the frightening gaze of Lord Arryn and the fierce eye of Robert, young Lady Eddara had quickly become Off Limits. And despite that heady feeling of the blood coursing through her veins after having come off the battlefield, the adrenaline shooting her sky high and ready for anything, Ned would quickly remind herself why she was fighting this war in the first place, the images of her father and brother being killed mercilessly quite rightly stilling her hand and body.  
  
And so despite what many thought of her stern, solemn self, Ned began again to cling to the love songs she sang as a child with her sister. Lyanna knew the words much better than herself, but the two of them would howl their way through the songs, both ignoring the complaints and covered ears from their younger brother. The idea of true love still existing out there (just not for her) somehow makes those frustrated nights go by with more ease.  
  
Ned can never take a husband whom she cannot trust with the truth of her son’s birth, and with her maidenhead firmly intact, she cannot take the easy way out and just lie, either. No. She can never take a husband with whom she cannot trust her son, and thus, her heart.  
  
For in the six years she’s been Lady of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Ned has fairly much fallen in love with the little boy named Jon, heart and soul. Some days, the good days, she forgets he is not even from her own body, she forgets the all too early death of her sister, her father and brother, and Jon is just her little boy, so quick to grow into a little man.  
  
And it is in those moments when she lets her thoughts stray to his serious little nature, his unwavering devotion, his loyalty to the only mother he knows; and all she can think of is how easy it would be to just legitimise him, to make him wholly her own, a future lord, a true Stark continuing on their name, their legacy, their _family_.  
  
It’s not unheard of to do so, but Ned promised. And although she had broken her promise to protect her younger sister upon first meeting her, swaddled in her mother’s arms just so, Ned knows she cannot break this. No, Jon will have to remain a Snow, and though it breaks her heart a little to facilitate that distance between them, she knows it is the best way to keep him secret, keep him safe. Just another bastard in the North.  
  
And yet, as she reads the message the raven carried to her for the umpteenth time, has already sent the call for her banners, she can only see one more betrayal, yet another promise to be broken in front of her.  
  
 _Promise me._  
  
Jon comes into the room laughing, the maester behind him, and jumps squealing into his mother’s arms, twisting away from her tickling fingers, before standing as tall as he can before her, chin raised proudly.  
  
“What have you done with my son, hmm? Who is this man before me? Hmm?” her voice is teasing as he giggles out his protests.  
  
“Mama it’s me, it’s Jon! Silly mama!”  
  
“Oh yes, I am _such_ a silly mama, hmm?”  
  
He just beams at her, and shakes his head, smiling wide, his little pink tongue poking out through a gap in his teeth, and Ned just feels a wave of love wash over her, and silently apologises to her sister, vows to say it out loud before the heart tree, her sins for the gods to hear.  
  
“It’s time for your lessons, Jon.” Maester Luwin is saying, and her son suddenly looks to her with wide, pleading eyes.  
  
“Please, mama? Please could I get a sword today? Please?” he wheedles out, determined that today, today she’ll give in. “I am six, you know. Please, mama?”  
  
And the thing is, she almost does. Instead, she steels her will and tuts at her overzealous child, feigns ignorance.  
  
“Why my darling boy, you have a sword,” she says innocently, gesturing to the wooden blade that seems to be permanently attached to his hip. She furrows her brow, thinking so very hard. “What is it you practice with every day with Ser Rodrik?”  
  
She is a very silly mama, after all.  
  
“But it’s made of wood-I can’t be a _knight_ with wood!” he protests, the fight slowly seeping out of him, and Ned feels herself freeze a little. A knight?  
  
“You wish to be a knight, my darling?” she asks, voice small, but Jon doesn’t seem to notice, too excited that he hasn’t been dismissed in this argument quite yet.  
  
“Yeah, a knight of the Kingsguard! I’ll be just as strong as you, mama, and I’ll be the best knight there is, and maybe you can come see me ride in tourneys and then I’ll win, and then everyone will know you’re the most beautiful mama, and then you’ll be the queen of love and beauty, and then we’ll go and-”  
  
“That’s an awful lot of ‘and then’s, my darling,” she interrupts. “Are you sure you’ll have time for them all?” She feels weak, memories of Lyanna being crowned at Harrenhall almost stalling her heart.  
  
But Jon just nods enthusiastically, life still a song to him. She pauses, takes a breath. Deep breath, Ned.  
  
“Well. You should know, my darling-us Stark women don’t really like crowns all that much.”  
  
And while her heart simpers a bit at the dejected look on his face, she knows that Jon knows his mama isn’t quite like many other mamas, and is ready to catalogue this new information away.  
  
“No?”  
  
“No...” she gives him a grin. “No, we much prefer eating little boys who won’t go to their lessons!” he screams as her fingers tickle his sides without mercy, his attempts of escape merely feeding into her grasp as he giggles with laughter, trying to push her away.  
  
“I’ll go, I’ll go, just sto-ho-hop!” he pleads, his knees going weak, and Ned can already feel his childhood slipping away from her, and stills her fingers, holding him in front of her.  
  
“Jon,” she begins, voice serious. “I’m going to be going away soon, and I need you to help Maester Luwin take care of Winterfell, ok?”  
  
“Where are you going, mama?” he asks, his little voice mirroring hers. She ignores him.  
  
“When I come back, you and I shall practice together with a sword of steel, ok?”  
  
And Jon looks elated, but not quite sure about this victory coupled with her leaving him like this. She makes up his mind for him, and tells him to get his books, to get ready himself for his lessons. She needed a word with Luwin herself.  
  
He trots off, half excited about a sword, half worried about his mother, and she and Luwin have the room.  
  
“Maester. It would seem I’m off to war,” she says, gesturing to the parchment on the table. “Again.”  
  
“It would, my lady. And too soon for it, in my opinion.”  
  
“Aye. And yet this time, I don’t intend on coming back with a child in my arms.”  
  
She pauses, and can suddenly hear Rickard Stark’s voice as if he were in the room with them.  
  
“I’m not getting any younger,” she continues, “and I’ll never be as famed for my...ah, beauty, as my sweet sister was. And no man would step aside to watch his Northern bride run the lands that should be his through marriage, let alone put up with a bastard child. I believe it’s time for us to legitimise Jon, Maester.”  
  
If Luwin is surprised, his voice does not betray him.  
  
“I shall draw up the appropriate papers, my lady.”  
  
She nods. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. He may not take his place on the Iron Throne, but he will get his rightful seat as Lord of Winterfell. He will not reach for what he cannot have. They will be wolves again.


	3. Never Be Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so there's some icky misogyny in here that is super not fun to write. Like, at all. But, that's the world they live in.

He strolled through the hallway at what he hoped looked like a leisurely pace, eager for all who he passed to see that he, Lord Keith Tully, the second son, was on his way to a meeting with the King himself. Family, Duty, Honour-these are the words he lives by, but Keith-Kit, he likes to be called-cannot help but feel a certain pride that his older brother and heir, Edmure, was passed over for this particular task.  
  
He knows he’s early, knows the reputation for the war thirsty king who enjoys his cups and women all too well, and yet as he reaches the room where they are to meet, he feels a disappointment when he sees a woman standing there, back to him, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. He had hoped to meet with King Robert and his council without a mistress nearby.  
  
She is from the North, he assesses, looking at the long dark braids and her woolen skirts, which have, for some reason he cannot determine, high slits in them, revealing long legs clad in boots and breeches, extending over the lean muscles, and shamefully his eyes trail up higher than they ought. She is taller than most women he has met, and as she turns her face to him, grey eyes taking him in, Kit’s thoughts of meeting the king have long flown from his mind.  
  
It is the quirk from her small lips that brings him back to mind. He speaks.  
  
“My lady,” he begins, feeling like a green boy suddenly, and not a man who has his own Keep in the Riverlands. “This is a _War_ council. With the king. Mayhaps you should go back to the ladies solar...?”  
  
He can practically hear Edmure howling with laughter at him, all the way from Riverrun, somehow unable to speak in full sentences to a woman he is now suspecting is not a mistress, after all. But he’s supposed to be meeting with the king and this Lord Ned the king always roars about in his cups, and he truly wishes to make a good impression, to make his father, his family proud.  
  
“I realise that, Lord...?” she trails off, and Kit feels the tips of his ears heat in embarrassment.  
  
“I am Keith Tully, my lady. You may call me Kit, if it please you.”  
  
And he must have mumbled the last part, because she quirks a dark eyebrow at him, and her eyes look fairly amused.  
  
“‘Cat’, my lord?”  
  
“Nay, _Kit_ , my lady,” he enunciates, more clearly this time. “It is a name from childhood.”  
  
And she graces him with a little smile. It is a nice smile, he thinks, softening her solemn face, lending her charm, and her lips look to be full of secrets. She doesn’t look like she smiles much, this tall woman, and he feels lucky he’s got over a head of height on her. But when she smiles, her grey eyes seem to sparkle a little, and he can’t help but feel a little entranced, utterly charmed.  
  
 _Oh, but to kiss those secrets from those lips._  
  
Kit mentally shakes himself, trying not to dishonour this lady with her long nose and long legs with his thoughts.  
  
“I am Lady Eddara, my lord,” she replies sweetly, and as he wonders if her hair must feel like the black silk it looks, all twisted back into braids, he suddenly realises there’s a long sword at her hip, the hip he most definitely hadn’t sought out, he tries to tell himself. What on earth...?  
  
She continues talking. “If it please you, you may call me-”  
  
“NED!” The king’s voice booms down the hallway, and while Eddara whips her head around to him, Kit looks behind him for the mysterious Ned Stark, this Northern lord and childhood friend the king constantly brags on about. But he sees no one, and turns back only to see Eddara beaming at the king.  
  
“Robert,” she laughs, arms opening for an embrace. “It’s been a while, your grace.” And Kit can only watch, jaw almost dropping, as King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, pulls the Lady Eddara-no, _Ned_ , he thinks-Stark into a massive embrace, even lifting her off the ground a little to the point where he can’t help but notice again the way her skirts and breeches tighten over the toned line of the long legs and-  
  
“Ah, I see you’ve met Kit, eh? A fine man, Ned. I think you’ll like him. All about honour and duty, this one.”  


* * *

  
As Robert chuckles at his joke, and Kit looks like he’s pondering what’s so terrible about honour and duty, Ned gently appraises the man with his red, gently curling hair and Tully blue eyes. It has been a long time since she has allowed herself to look at a man beyond his loyalty to her, and though she doesn’t quite care for his treatment of her for her sex, she’s always known Southron lords to be upright sticklers for tradition.  
  
And yet though she has not been properly courted herself, she remembers what Robert was like with Lyanna, stuttering his words and unable to form full sentences while looking thoroughly dazed throughout; and it is this that she is startled to recognise in the younger Tully son. Ned might have to rely on her steward and maester for political counsel far too often (though she tries to learn, she truly works at it), but she knows how to read a man, has seen enough in her life to be able to trust her gut instinct, and here it is telling her something wholly unpredicted.  
  
She’s startled, and pushes the thoughts away, determinedly thinking on the Iron Islands once again, the reason they are all here.  


* * *

  
Kit watches as Lady Eddara-no, Ned, he thinks-playfully punches her childhood friend on the shoulder, suddenly coming to the comprehension that these two grew up together, and that King Robert calls her his best friend for a reason. Without realising it, his heart sinks a little at the thought of Edda- _Ned_ being spoken for, or maybe even having been involved with the king himself.  
  
What second son can even hope to measure up?  
  
“Yes, we’ve met.” she says mildly.  
  
“Kit! Why don’t you go into the room, let me talk to Ned for a moment out here?”  
  
Kit nods, and for some reason, almost _curtsies_ , backing into the room quickly, feeling utterly humiliated. He can hear her murmuring voice behind him. Robert, of course, continues to speak at outrageous volumes.  
  
“Why not, Ned? It’s been over six years, and don’t you want a husband to help you with Jon?”  
  
Kit cocks his head at this, and waits through Ned’s quieter reply. He knows he shouldn’t be listening, but really-he’s certainly far enough away, and it can’t really be his fault the king possesses lungs like a blow horn.  
  
“Legitimised him? Splendid idea! I’ll have gifts sent after we crush these Ironborn riff raff. A sword, I say, that’ll be fit for a young Lord Stark.”  
  
Kit has no idea what’s going on anymore, but then again, as the second son of Hoster Tully, he isn’t always pivvy to or much interested in news beyond the Riverlands. But as Lady Ned and King Robert walk into the room, Ned looking somewhat more regal than her boisterous childhood friend, a serious look to her grey eyes, already looking at the maps laid out on the table, Robert speaks (nay, booms) again.  
  
“You’re still young, Ned-always time to pop out some more, I say!”  
  
Kit looks on as a blush worthy of a red headed Tully lights up Lady Ned’s cheeks, watches as her strong, weathered hands tighten their grip on the edges of the table.  


* * *

  
He takes a deep, stuttering breath as he watches those same weathered hands feel their way across his chest, somehow feather light in their touch, a stark contrast to the hands he saw only hours earlier skillfully taking a man down, the blade shining and singing amongst the blood and turbulent seas.  
  
Kit can see he is a stronger fighter than she-being taller and having more muscle sees to that, but she is light on her feet and her skill is undeniable, unwavering. Yet so are the Ironborn they fight. He’s tired when he finally feels the gash of skin on his side, adrenaline wearing off as he realises that that’s quite a bit of blood, and he can’t help but wince as he pulls boiled leather and soaked cloth away from the wound.  
  
Looking up, he tries to gain the attention of a maester, but to no avail-he is busy, and the healers were tending to other grievous wounds.  
  
 _Duty_.  
  
It is his duty as a Tully to protect his family’s people from the Iron Islands, and so as a Tully he will wait until the men who so dutifully serve his family and their king are properly tended to. It is also his duty, he thinks, to drown himself in this skin of wine in the meantime-he’ll need to be properly sated when the healers finally make their way to him.  
  
The skin is half empty when she comes to him, and he tries to stand, to say ‘my lady’ with a respectful nod of the head, but his legs feel like jelly fish and again his ears ring with Edmure’s mocking laughter. But as his eyes meet hers, he can see the concern in them, laced with relief. It hadn’t been a good day in battle, and though they had made great headway, the aftermath of storms had created an uneven battlefield.  
  
“You’re hurt,” she says, and the look on her face makes her look as if it is her fault.  
  
 _Honour_.  
  
“Aye, my lady,” he struggles not to slur. Despite the men he’s seen her kill this day and the days previous, despite the stories he has heard of her cutting down members of the Kingsguard, it’s not very honourable to be a drunk with a lady present. Especially one who is also Warden of the North.  
  
She kneels down before him, whips out a knife-where had that come from? he wonders-and starts cutting away his jerkin and tunic underneath, the better to see to the wound. Kit doesn’t want to look down, but can’t help himself, and regrets it almost immediately-his torso is covered in bruises, deep purple and smeared with blood from his side. Gods be good, this would be quite the recovery process.  
  
He almost yelps when she starts poking around his bruises, strong fingers feeling for any internal damage and she looks up at him with no apology.  
  
“During the Rebellion,” she states, an answer to his unasked question as to why and how she knows what she’s doing. “And during my time at the Vale-Robert quite liked the idea of jousting until he realised he was quite terrible at it. I would play at being his squire, while he played at being a knight. It involved quite a lot of trips to the maester, I have to say.” she finishes with a chuckle. Her voice is soft, deep, and he feels almost lulled into sleep by it.  
  
Suddenly she’s standing and waving a healer woman over, boiled wine in hand, a wooden box in the other. He must look alarmed at the sight, because she then strokes his hair, his cheek, as if soothing a skittish horse. It does the trick, and Kit lets out a groan when he feels the boiled wine on his ripped skin, gritting his teeth in pain. He wants to be able to say no need, he’ll be fine, he’s sure it’ll heal itself thank you very much, but he knows better.  
  
And as he watches Lady Ned quickly thread a needle, fingers deft in their movement, blood staining her own clothes and person, hair falling out of its braids, he reaches for his wine skin again, taking a deep gulp as she begins her precise stitches.  
  
She doesn’t make inane chatter, as she works, doesn’t try to convince him he is anywhere but where he is, and Kit uses this time instead to think on this woman before him. Brought up in the North, fostered in the Vale, surrounded by stern, strong, powerful men all her life, and allowed many freedoms ladies of her station were not granted had turned this second child of Rickard Stark into a fierce warrior, able to cut down men twice her size.  
  
But, with this world they lived in, and despite the North’s unnatural customs, he imagined there was a reason she kept to her skirts, adapting them to combat, a reason why her courtesies and curtsies painted a picture of a maiden fair, why her hands looked so comfortable with a needle and thread in them, neat stitches now lined up his side. (Oh gods, he shouldn’t have looked.)  
  
 _Family_.  
  
The Lady Ned was a mystery to him, and as he pondered on her dual citizenship as both male and female in her actions-though thoroughly female in her physique he tries not to realise too much as a swell of her breast brushes against his arm-he took another sip from the skin of wine, watching with hazy eyes as she snatched it out from his hands, taking a long drag from it herself, lips wrapped around the-he groaned and closed his eyes, willing himself to just pass out already.  
  
It’s as she starts fading from his sight and he gladly explores the darkness of blissful sleep that he begins to imagine a little brood of Tully haired children with sparkling grey eyes running around.  


* * *

  
Ned looks at the man before her, and wonders how much harder she would have had to be with his wounds to have him pass out much sooner than he did. As it was, he had stayed awake for far too long, yet had mercilessly not tried to make any talk-she wasn’t sure what she would have said had he tried to facilitate a conversation with her; she had never felt confident with idle chatter, much preferring comfortable silences than words which meant little to her. Besides, she would, and thought many of the men she had stitched up in her time would agree with her, prefer to concentrate on making the stitches clean and strong, than attempt to distract the soldier in her care.  
  
It was a skill Robert had often praised once he stopped complaining about her time spent in the company of the ladies of the Vale, sitting in a sewing circle, bent over minute stitches and intricate designs. One day, he jested to those who would listen, she would sew a pretty floral design into a soldier for his war efforts. Ned had always shaken her head at this, smiling at her friend and  even cruelly suggesting that she would sew a kraken into his wounds one day, the house sigil he had deemed the ‘most useless’.  
  
She did no such thing with Keith Tully-Kit, she reminds herself-though, and after meticulously tying off her stitches and binding up the wound with clean wraps, she sat back on her heels and looked at the sleeping man. He snored softly, and for a second, allowed herself to think on how it would be to fall asleep next to such a sound, to wake up in arms larger than her own.  
  
Her face must have betrayed her thoughts however, as an unusually quiet Robert snuck up on her, poking her in the side and waggling his brows at her suggestively.  
  
“Robert...” she said warningly, standing and walking out of the hall, her friend following behind.  
  
“Ned. Come now, it’s not like you don’t know what to do-Jon is proof of that!”  
  
“It would never work, Robert.” she replied, ignoring his comment.  
  
“Nonsense! As your king, I command it to work. There, done.” he looked a little too pleased with himself, her dear friend, and despite all the years she spent missing his company, Ned found she didn’t quite miss him anymore, and that he could go home now, thank you.  
  
“Robert! I am your Warden of the North, I cannot go around marrying lords and becoming a wife. I have an heir, I have the North, I have Winterfell-there’s not much else for me to have, is there?”  
  
At this, his face softened, and Ned has only seen him this way once before, when she had told him of the fictional Dornishman who had spilled his seed in her.  
  
“Ned, I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, sometimes. It’s not always about what you have, there has to be something to want, something to strive towards.” he pauses, and Ned wonders unkindly if he’s ever this serious on the Iron Throne. “You’ve lost so much, Eddara, and got so little in return. You do a damn fine job in the North my girl, and I know you’ve got Jon with you, but you need to think of yourself as well.”  
  
He looks like he wants to say more, a jape to break the serious tone of the conversation, but knows now is just not the time, not the moment to do so. He begins to walk away, and Ned, feeling like a fool, asks for one last piece of advice.  
  
“It is not normal practice for a lady to seek a husband though, Robert. It’s not entirely in my hands.”  
  
He just chuckles and shakes his head at her, as if he cannot believe her to be this stupid.  
  
“Ned-you’re the finest swordswoman in the land, you’re Lady of Winterfell, and I’m proud to have you be my Warden of the North-and in this matter, you choose to act like a woman? Come on, Ned, be a man.”  
  
And he leaves for true after that, while Ned ponders on his words.  


* * *

  
It is not until the victorious roars of drunken Northmen and Riverlanders alike echo in the great hall that she is currently dancing in with the now fully-healed Kit Tully, that Ned thinks on Robert’s words again. She doesn’t want to be a man, she muses, laughing as he spins her around effortlessly. It is Kit who makes her feel what she knows she is not-delicate, and lovely, a woman.  
  
As she sits again, taking a large sip from her wine goblet, she recalls her time in Dorne-it had seemed so backwards to her, that matriarchal society of theirs, but as she meets Kit’s sparkling blue eyes, and boldly (too bold, she’ll wince about later) leans forward to steal a quick, chaste kiss on his clean shaven cheek, she thinks that Robert was entirely wrong in his advice.  
  
Mayhaps, she thinks, looking at the bright red blush on Kit’s face, his smile wide and shy at the same time, it is time to act like the ladies of Dorne, to cater a little to her own wants for once.  
  
She’ll need to be cautious, she knows, looking down at the hand that now holds her own that suddenly looks smaller than it is; she’ll have to be able to trust this man with not just her own life, but her son’s as well.  
  
But as she and her bannermen begin the journey home, and she tethers the young Greyjoy’s pony to her destrier, she thinks of the letters he promised he would send her, the visits he proposed (all to Winterfell, he assured her), and the sweet kiss he had politely asked permission for just that morning after seeking her out in the godswood.  
  
Her men hoot at her, catcall and speculate loudly at the smile that seems impossible to wipe off her face, but Ned just shakes her head, and tries to spare her young new ward the unseemly japes at her expense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this got...long. And thus, is part a. I didn't want to have a suddenly billion page chapter when CLEARLY my previous chapters haven't been anything remotely close. So I'm splitting this up. Part b isn't exactly...finished, but hopefully soon.


	4. Symphony in Blue

Logically, Ned knows that Kit would have returned home a lot faster than she would have-on top of having a larger party to travel with, and a ten year old boy to care for, Winterfell is farther away, and with only a quick stop home to introduce young Theon to Jon, Ned was on the road again, invited to House Hornwood by the young Lord Daryn to join in celebration.  
  
Yet once the other houses realised what was happening, Ned found herself plagued with visiting almost every great house in the North, a journey lasting over a month, and with the Spring snows (not a false spring, they all agree over cups of wine) delaying legs of their travels, Ned wishes she had the forethought to have just declined in the first place.  
  
What had seemed like a good idea to start ended up with Ned and her men looking a little more than dazed as they rode back through the gates of Winterfell, most of them feeling a little half-drunk from the boisterous night with the Tallharts, who had proudly taken to her so much they declared the next daughter born to their house be named after her.  
  
Ned remembers not much after that moment, knows that she and her men had roared with approval, and that her cup was never empty after that. She had hoped the journey back home would ride out her wine sickness so Jon won’t see her this way, but it seems to be just the opposite. Mayhaps her sorry state will steer the boy clear of wine forever, she hopes, but knows that this would be but a mummer’s farce had he made such a promise.  
  
Honestly, she had thought growing up with Robert Baratheon had taught her well the effects of too much wine, but as she prepares herself for the running tackle from her son accompanied by his high-pitched squeals of ‘mama!’, Ned just hopes she can make it through the rest of the day intact. There’s work to be caught up on, and while her men can sleep off the Tallharts, she has Vayon and Luwin and Ser Rodrik waiting for her.  
  
Deep breath, Ned. Deep breath. The nausea somehow passes as her son barrels into her, and she just barely manages to remain upright. She comments on how tall he’s grown, and at his excited chatter, looks around the yard-the Greyjoy boy standing by Luwin, looking decidedly uncomfortable, but as she sends Jon off so she can get to her duties, she notes the way the two boys run off together, and is relieved.  
  
Time to suffer for her indulgences, she sighs, looking at the expectant faces of her steward, maester, and master at arms.  


* * *

  
Later that night, having finally got Jon settled into bed, story told, she allows herself to look at It. It being the letter she had hastily shoved into her skirts. It being the letter that had felt like it had burned a mark into her leg all night. It being the letter Luwin had passed to her, concern on his face at having received a raven from South of the Neck, and Ned can only be grateful that it was one of the few he hadn’t opened before handing it to her.  
  
Kit, it seems, has quite a flair for words, and upon a quick glance at its contents, while schooling her face to the best of her abilities, Ned had, with the calmest voice she thinks she’s ever used, said that it was nothing of concern, that it was just some friendly correspondence, and they continued on.  
  
But now, now after the longest day she’s ever experienced, she settles into a steaming bath, sighs, and finally allows herself to indulge in his words.  
  
Logically, Ned knew that he’d arrive home to his keep before her, but she never even thought she’d receive such a letter within such a short amount of time having known each other.  
  
It’s nothing too salacious or scandalous, she thinks, but it makes her heart flutter more than a bit as he describes his wish to be able to kiss her again, that their embrace was much too brief. And though she giggles like a girl not yet flowered at the words, it is his admiration of her vast amount of duties -her taking in the Greyjoy boy as a ward, her skill with a sword, her skill with a needle (his scar looks fine and fierce, he writes, much to Ned’s flushed embarrassment), and all without a word of how he thinks she should share the duties with a lord husband, that really makes her...her heart, she supposes, sing.  
  
Reaching out and placing the letter on the table nearby, she watches the ceiling, watches the flickering shadows from the fire dance upon it, and with a smile she has not shared since her brief reunion with her sister at Harrenhall, she sinks down into the water.  


* * *

  
It has been near ten months now, ravens flying back and forth, before Ned summons up the courage to tell Vayon and Luwin what’s been going on. Luwin, she knows, can’t be too surprised, for he tends to the birds himself, but Vayon only looks at her with a ‘ah’ look on his face, which confounds her.  
  
“Lady Eddara, I had...I had suspected something of this nature, I must confess.”  
  
Ned looks at him in shock. She had been so careful, she thought-none of the seals were broken when she received Kit’s letters, and when she could, she would go to the rookery herself to send off her replies.  
  
Vayon looks a bit abashed, and finally says:  
  
“You have been smiling more than normal, my lady.”  
  
At which Ned can’t help but laugh, and informs them she intends on inviting him to visit.  
  
“My lady-there’s no need to ask us for permission,” Vayon says, gesturing between Luwin and himself, sounding almost confused.  
  
“I am not seeking permission, Vayon-merely advice. The North is quiet at the moment, and summer is upon us, but how would this reflect on House Stark? A lord, a second son from the South coming to visit Winterfell? No one will mistake that for merely a friendly gesture.”  
  
Vayon and Luwin both nod in agreement, but Luwin brings up Jon to counter:  
  
“But my lady, you have already legitimised young Jon-he is to be your heir, and it is...it is my belief that the whole of the North knows that, believes that any sort of...match will not change that.”  
  
Ned nods, bites her lip.  
  
“This is true. And though his letters indicate a man of sound mind and understanding of my son, my situation...words are wind, after all.”  
  
Suddenly she’s unsure. In her years of being Lady of the North, Ned has wavered little, but this, this is a whole other matter.  
  
“Well then, my lady,” Vayon says, reaching forward and grasping her hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze, “we shall have to invite this Southron lord and see how well he can manage the North!”  
  
She gives him a weak smile, and Luwin says that he will begin to quietly inquire about the character of Lord Keith Tully from the maester of Riverrun, if she had any doubts about her judgement of the man.  
  
Sometimes Ned doesn’t know what she’d do without her trusted steward and wise maester.  


* * *

  
She’s in the middle of looking over ledgers for what seems to be the hundredth time, foot tapping in anticipation of Kit’s arrival later that week when she hears it by the door. A noisy snuffle and a small gasp, and she feels as though she is on alert suddenly as she turns to see Jon peeking out at her from her half closed door, eyes red and a look of utter devastation on his face.  
  
“Jon? What’s wrong? Come here.” he steps into the room, eyes on the floor, and walks to stand before her, ignoring her outstretched arms. It stings a bit, seeing him in pain, but unwilling to accept a mother’s comfort.  
  
 _The only mother he’s ever known’s comfort._  
  
“Are you my mother?” he asks, voice pitifully small, and Ned is stunned, feels like someone’s punched her in the stomach.  
  
“Of _course_ , my darling. What could make you ever think different?”  
  
He looks up at her then, and his lip wobbles a bit, but he manages to keep his voice steady. So serious, she thinks, even at seven years, he’s practically a man already.  
  
“But my name was Snow. I’m a bastard, aren’t I?”  
  
Ned wants to cry, wants to lie, wants to do anything but go through this conversation she knew would happen sooner or later, this conversation she has practiced in her head, but something she feels wholly unprepared for.  
  
She goes to sit before the hearth, and motions for him to join her, which, bless his little heart, he does.  
  
“Jon,” she starts, watching him as he stares at the fire, dark eyes reflecting the light. And oh, does she want to lie, wants to lie even bigger than she’s about to, but she cannot. She begins again. “My darling boy-yes, you were a bastard.” his breath hitches and Ned pushes on. “When I was fighting for your uncle Robert-”  
  
“The _King_ ,” he interrupts, ever the stickler for titles even now.  
  
“Yes, the King. When I was fighting in the Rebellion, I...I met a man. A knight, from Dorne.” she watches as his shoulder perk up a little as she remembers her practiced lie.  
  
 _Promise me._  
  
“And one night, we lay together as a man and wife should only do.”  
  
“Except you weren’t man and wife.” he mumbles into his arms.  
  
“No, no we weren’t, but for a time, we loved each other very deeply. And as my stomach quickened with you, he went into battle and was slain in combat.”  
  
It is not poetry, she thinks, but it was the best, most logical version of events she had been able to come up with and be able to stick to thus far. For many a moon she had been riding in the South with her six companions, and just as she had promised her sister, Howland Reed, the only other remaining, had in turn promised her.  
  
The tale, to the few whom she had reluctantly told, had certainly given her a reputation-that of a warrior, and that of a harlot. She was either cold-hearted for continuing to fight while with child, putting her babe at severe risk, or she was a hero for being able to recover from child birth so quickly only to be able to cut down The Sword of the Morning. None ever combined the two opinions, and Ned just continued on, content for people to think more on her actions than Jon existing.  
  
“And so yes, Jon. You were a bastard, for I had you without being wed.”  
  
He turns to her, finally, and Ned anxiously anticipates his next question, the answer to which she’ll never have a satisfying answer-why had she waited so long before making him a Stark?  
  
But that is not what he asks.  
  
“Who was my father?” and Ned very nearly wants to collapse onto the floor in relief, for this is a non-answer she can give, one she does not feel very badly about giving.  
  
“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” she replies, giving him a sad smile, and cupping his face in her hands as she lays a kiss on the crown of his head. And Jon, serious little Jon, boy no longer, of that she is sure, nods and wraps himself in her embrace.  


* * *

  
It is a week into Kit’s visit, and Ned has to make sure she doesn’t smile too much, for her cheeks are positively burning in delightful pain. They have talked a lot, Kit and she-though to be truthful, he’s a much better conversationalist than she is, and sometimes she feels the struggle to keep up, wonders what he could possibly be interested in, this silent, deliberate Northern woman.  
  
Benjen has come for a visit as well, declared that it was time he met the future Lord of Winterfell, and though Ned wants to be angry at him, all she feels is an overwhelming relief at his presence, and laughs as she easily bests him in the practice yard, while he retorts that the Wall should begin accepting women if they all fought as well as she did.  
  
Jon, of course, is thrilled at meeting his uncle, and he and Theon (Theon, who normally rolls his eyes at the younger boy’s excitement, despite only being two years older) are Benjen’s captive audience at dinner each night, telling tales of Wildlings and Wrights and the Wall. They are much better than Old Nan’s tales, the boys tell her, yawning as she bids them goodnight, and Ned makes a mental note to tell Old Nan to bring out her tales of Winter, of the Long Night.  
  
She walks back into her solar to find her brother and Kit sitting before the fire, cups in hand and talking with ease. And she can’t stop the aching smile in this moment, being so close, yet so far to what she envisioned her life to be as a child. Her sweet brother visiting her, doting on her child, her husba-Ned shakes her head clear of the image quickly. None of it is true, none of this is true, for she has no husband, her brother has left his name and titles behind, and her son is not entirely hers.  
  
But as she looks at Kit, as he stands to attention, pouring her a cup of wine, pulling her a chair farthest away from the fire (he has remembered her writing her preference to sitting far away from the heat-one of her more disappointingly dull letters, she thinks), she thinks that it might come true one day.  
  
It is not long, however, before he excuses himself to his rooms, clapping Benjen on the back, and taking her hand, looking at it with intent to kiss it, before he balks and somehow dances awkwardly out of the room, stammering out ‘good nights’ and ‘pleasant dreams’, that leaves Ned thoroughly confused, and a little hurt if she must confess it. He has not asked to kiss her since he arrived, and Ned thinks she might have to corner him and ask him herself if he waits any longer.  
  
She turns back to the fire and looks to her brother, who she discovers, is shaking in his seat with silent laughter, sending her a knowing grin.  
  
“What?” she asks, annoyed. At this, however, he bursts out laughing, and Ned just rolls her eyes, waiting for him to calm down.  
  
“He is a good man,” Benjen finally says.  
  
“Aye,” she agrees. “he is that.”  
  
“And ah, he seems to quite enjoy you, sweet sister.”  
  
She scowls at the nickname all but Benjen reserved for Lyanna.  
  
“And I enjoy him, dear brother.” she returns, taking a sip of wine, listening to him choke on his. Hah.  
  
“And may I ask when you are to put him out of his misery and ask his hand, dear Eddara?” he manages, wiping his mouth of wine.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
He scoffs, and Ned wonders why and how people suddenly think her so stupid to scoff at her all the time.  
  
“Eddara, now is hardly the time to play stupid.” his voice is droll, and at her blank look, he sighs. “You’re  the Lady of the North, Eddara. He’s the second son to Hoster Tully, and has a Keep somewhere in the Riverlands. I’m afraid this is in your hands, sister. Not his.”  
  
She sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose.  
  
“Gods be good, Benjen. And I thought watching over a son and the North was taxing.”  
  
But her brother just laughs at her and she gives him a wry smile.  


* * *

  
It is a day later when she, quite literally, corners him in the stables, and kisses him.  
  
It is when she spies him carefully guiding Jon through the motions of swordplay, that she truly ponders the prospect of marrying him.  
  
They are in the library, only two days before he is due to leave, and this time he’s cornering her, and it leaves her breathless; the way he kisses her lips, her neck, her wrist. And though she officially has a son, she thanks whoever raised him that he never even hints at pulling up the hems of her skirts, nor makes any attempts of tugging at the neck line of her gown.  
  
When she’s finally able to push him away, still holding him close, fists clenched in his doublet, she gulps, and motions for them to sit, keeps her eyes deliberately away from his, still shining in hues of blue that she knows will only make her wish to pull him towards her again.  
  
“My lord,” she begins, “I should like to ask you something, and I should wish you answer me true.”  
  
He knows, she thinks, can see the expression on his face that almost makes her abort her plan.  
  
Take a deep breath, Ned. Breathe.  
  
“What should you wish to ask, my lady?” he replies, voice deep and husky, and gods be damned, Ned almost sits on her hands to still them, feels as though she were a young girl again, when she remembers that though she has lived a life worthy of a Lord, she is still as pure as a young girl.  
  
“I would wish-that you could-uh.” she clears her throat. That sentence wasn’t going to work, anyway. She tries again. “My lord-Kit,” and there it is, he smiles at her again, and Ned wishes she could do this from behind a screen, feels as though she is suddenly deathly allergic to fingers as he gently takes her hands in his. “I would ask that you acknowledge that you and I are in quite a different position to many other...um...”  
  
“Courtships?” he supplies, and Ned nods gratefully.  
  
“Yes. Courtships.” she bites her lip, pondering how to proceed, wishing she had someone write a script for her full of colourful words, and lyrical prose about how she loves his hair, his eyes, him.  
  
“Aye, my lady-Ned. I most certainly can acknowledge the unique courtship we are in.”  
  
Oh, good. She bravely continues on.  
  
“And I hope that you can understand my position in life cannot be changed in any way. That things are quite, um, different to what they may be in the South.”  
  
He nods again, and agrees with her, and she wonders how he’ll fare when the Mormonts come to the wedding feast-oh gods, Ned, don’t get ahead of yourself, girl!  
  
“I suppose what I should like to say, Kit, is that I truly respect you. You are a man of great honour and duty, and I believe I may love you.”  
  
She can’t quite believe it, but her eyes are welling with tears, and she blinks them away hastily, looks away, unsure, but he cups her chin and pulls her face toward him again.  
  
“Aye, Ned. And I you, I believe.” he confirms, blue eyes sparkling and Ned has no idea how she has gotten this lucky, but knows she cannot truly celebrate, not yet. She’s afraid he still has much to prove.  
  
“Oh, good.” she all but whispers, and truly hates her blunt self in that moment. His hands squeeze hers then, in silent support of what she’s going to do next. Go on, they say.  
  
“I-I should quite like then, to ask your hand in marriage, Kit. To ask you to come live here with me, in Winterfell. I’m afraid I have no lands to give you, but-” and she’s cut off by his lips on hers, his large arms wrapped around her, his whiskers rubbing her face red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this got...long....again. And thus, is part b. Fingers crossed I can get the rest of it in c., because again, WIPs aren't my strength, and I feel as though I should be moving the story a little faster, but if the original Cat/Ned are my OTP, well, it's kinda hard not to draw it out in AU, in a way.


	5. Won't You Lay Your Hands On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding bells are ringin' in the chapel, I hear the children laughing out with glee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unwitting inspiration from le awesome fic 'Rough Winds Do Shake' (I have no idea how to link in this thing-is it basically like lj html?). Also, have given up on part a, b, c, etc. as now have proper plan laid out for fic and am feeling way better about tackling a WIP, so yaaayyy :D

Kit was three days out from Winterfell before Ned sent out the ravens-it wasn’t nearly enough time for him to avoid being met on the road by her fellow Northmen, but as Vayon pointed out, they’d want to meet this Southron lord for themselves, to determine his worth, for they were, to Ned’s surprise, quite protective of their Lady of the North and her heir.  
  
So she shrugged, and though she pointed out that that was their problem, for they had all witnessed what she was capable of, had Luwin send out the announcement anyway-but not before she was able to tell Jon herself, of course.  
  
That particular conversation could have gone better, she thinks, Jon not particularly pleased with the idea of sharing her with another man, but in the end he had grudgingly admitted that Kit was ‘ok’ with a sword, and that was that. And though Ned wouldn’t have allowed her decision to be swayed by a boy of nearly ten’s opinion, there are still moments when she second guesses herself, prays fervently in the godswood that Kit is as good a man she believes he is, that he will help keep her secret safe.  
  
She had decided to take him into her confidence before they had told anyone of their betrothal, and in that old library, Ned had, tears for her sister in her eyes, revealed her secret to him. Had, between sniffling and feeling incredibly vulnerable, offered him the chance to refuse her hand, and whispered:  
  
“I just beg that on any of the feelings you previously held for me, you will hold Jon’s secret safe. If not for me, then for him.” She finished, finally looking down to where their hands were still clasped, fingers weaved together.  
  
“I-Eddara,” he says, voice low, “I will keep your secret gladly, for as long as I shall keep your heart.”  
  
As Ned snaps her head up to look at him, his eyes telling her, and her own agreeing, that this will be the one time they speak on the matter, she bursts into a relieved smile and nods.

* * *

  
The wedding is set four months from now, and though Ned thinks that ample time, the ladies whom she has had little contact with during her time since the Rebellion, do not agree. Ned has always enjoyed what was known as ‘womanly pursuits’, but between the North and Jon, had had little time to join their sewing circles, preferring, at the end of a long day, to sew in her rooms by herself, grateful for the solitude.  
  
So it is out of seemingly nowhere that Inger, Merete and Gudrun arrive one morning whilst Ned finds herself shuffled off to a meeting she didn’t think she had even arranged, only to end up stripped bare and poked and prodded and measured. The final straw is when they begin draping her in swaths of fabric, and Ned finally asks them what on earth they think they’re doing.  
  
It is Merete (she thinks), who speaks up first.  
  
“We have to prepare your gown, Lady Eddara,” she says, and Ned just bites her lip and nods. Of course. The dress.  
  
She hasn’t been to many weddings herself, and the ones she did go to mainly consisted of her and Robert trying to outdrink each other, who would then rush off during the bedding ceremony, eager for a hand on the bride, while Lord Arryn would say it would be improper for her to join the other women stripping the groom.  
  
She frowns when she realises she is being prompted for an answer.  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
Gudrun just clucks her tongue behind her, and makes a comment about how luck has been on Lady Stark’s side, to allow her to avoid the traditional marks that normally mark a woman’s torso after childbirth, while Inger stands before her, bundles of fabric in her arms.  
  
“I asked, my lady, what colours would you like?”  
  
“The Stark colours, of course. And ladies, it doesn’t have to be anything too elaborate-it will be torn off by the end of the night, after all.” Ned says, trying to ignore their disappointed faces. It doesn’t work when Gudrun also steps into view, and Ned is glad that Jon was not born a girl, for if three women grown can make her crumble with a _look_ , she fears a lot worse might have happened if Jon had gotten his way had she not been able to say ‘no’.  
  
But as it is, she sighs, gives them a smile she thinks must be more of a grimace, and concedes. She really doesn’t give these ladies as much to do as they would hope, she thinks, and with her upcoming wedding, they seem to be excited about something this far North, unable to sit with the lady wife or the children they’d normally be accompanying throughout their days.  
  
“I-ok, I-if it please you, I would like something with the Stark colours. And something...feminine. I should like to look pretty.” she says with a blush.  
  
Merete claps her hands in delight, and Gudrun-Lady Stark, you _must_ call me Gudde-lets out a squeal, while Inger starts talking about how they should really complete the colours with a fur trim, all the more to honour the Stark sigil, although it will be quite warm, a Summer wedding-so mayhaps some lace might be a good idea?  
  
And for the first time in a long time, Ned becomes excited over a gown she’ll only be able to wear once (completely impractical), and thinks of her mother and sister, wishes they could be the ones to do this with her, thinks on her father who won’t drape the maiden cloak over her shoulders, of how Brandon would sneak into her room at night and share his stories of his time with Lady Barbrey (Ned’s never been able to look that woman in the eye since), a wolfish grin on his face at her stern lecture that was always ruined by her snorts of laughter, all to ‘help his sister dear know what to expect’.  
  
Benjen, her only living kin, will be unlikely to join the festivities-he had managed to visit before under the flimsy guise of meeting the future Lord of Winterfell, meeting also with Kit and the Southron lords who accompanied him, to make his case for sending more men to the Wall, but she doubts the Lord Commander will think a wedding worthy of a visit.  
  
And so Ned will have her son as company, as even Robert sent his regards, the Queen newly pregnant and unfit for travel. In what was quite the heartfelt letter, even written in his own hand, he had quietly said he had wished to be there, wished to help hand the best friend he oft thought of as a little sister to a good man, and that on the day in question he would hold a feast in her honour down at King’s Landing, and Ned doesn’t think she’s ever felt this touched by her friend’s words before.  
  
The effect was ruined by a series of tricks he thinks she should use in the wedding bed and that he regretted not being able to ‘finally see what was under those skirts and breeches’.  
  
Well, she thinks, standing patiently before Inger finally waves her away and Merete thrusts her clothes back into her hands, the gesture was well-intentioned.  

* * *

  
 _Lord Kit of House Tully,_  
  
 _I hear Ned proposed marriage, and not by sword point either, so I suppose this is something she wants. I also suppose you know that as children we were both fostered by Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King-a very powerful position, I must confess-and as such, I have always thought of Ned as a younger sister, something my late lady mother, may the Seven bless her, was unable to provide in her too short time in this world._  
  
 _I made an oath to the late Lord Brandon Stark, once during a visit to the North, and it is something I have always intended to keep-if you put one fishy toe out of line, I will personally show you the meaning of the words of House Baratheon._  
  
 _I will be unable to make it to the wedding, but I have a very reliable Master of Whispers, boy._  
  
 _May your marriage be blessed by the Seven and the Old._  
  
  
 _King Robert Baratheon_  
 _First of his name_  
 _King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men_  
 _Lord of the Seven Kingdoms_  
 _Protector of the Realm_  
 _Ours is the Fury_  
  
  
Kit cleared his throat, and looked at the obscenely large yellow wax seal, the crowned stag dancing upon what looked to be a fish.

* * *

  
It is nearly a month away and they are riding out to greet Kit and his company when Jon, who has shot up like a weed, asks that it be he, instead of his new father, to remove her cloak for her. It is startling, this new growth, and though Lyanna was never close to reaching Ned’s height, she is glad her sister passed this down to her son, at least (Ned doesn’t ever think of what the father might have possibly given to Jon, doesn’t allow herself to go much farther than thoughts of Lyanna, and attributes Jon’s serious nature to herself instead).  
  
“But Jon, I won’t be removing my cloak.”  
  
Jon, who has only been to a wedding once, thinks back on what he remembers, what he learned from Luwin about marriage rites, and frowns.  
  
“Mother,” he starts-he no longer calls her ‘mama’, not after Theon had made a jape about the Baby of Winterfell, and Ned feels a sense of loss at it. “how else will you show your joining?”  
  
“Well, Lord Kit will be removing _his_ cloak, my darling. Would you like to pass a cloak to him, instead?”  
  
And Jon really frowns at her then, and Ned attempts a different approach.  
  
“He is to join our pack, Jon. He will become a wolf, like us, become family.” she says softly, watching her very clever son attempt to catalogue this new information about his mother, who isn’t like other mothers. But wedding rites are sacred to the Old Gods, and he is unsure how to reason this, to make the two definitives meet the middle.  
  
Finally, he nods, and echos words from her childhood, from her lord father.  
  
“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” he says, and Ned looks at him, proud to have raised such a decisive mind.  
  
“Yes, Jon. And one day that Stark will be you, and you will tell your children the same.” she replies, feeling as if she were talking to the Lord of Winterfell even now.  
  
But Jon messes the image up in her mind by scowling and mumbling about how disgusting girls are, and with Kit now in view, Tully banners flying in the wind, Ned laughs at her son, holding back on teasing him about the Steward’s girl who has recently taken to staring at him over meals.  
  
She had a husband to meet, after all.

* * *

  
She is barely halfway through telling Kit of the great houses and the lords in them they will be visiting once married when he all but attacks her mouth with his own, one hand running up into her hair, the other tracing down her spine, grasping at curves underneath as he pulls her close, and Ned thinks with a foggy mind that mayhaps she should have had Luwin sit in with them, but at the moment she doesn’t really care.  
  
It is of his own volition (certainly not hers, she thinks panting) when he pulls away, his red curls a mess by her fingers, his doublet almost undone, and before Ned can even being to imagine what _she_ must look like, she can only stare at her hands in astonishment, for they must have minds of their own, really.  
  
“Ned, my lady, I apologise, but I have been waiting so long to kiss you again,” and oh, does Ned know this to be true. His recent letters were most certainly not meant for any eyes but her own-preferably while in her bed, he would write, and Ned would feel the most delightful sensations between her legs at his words. She would attempt to write back in kind, feeling flushed and unsure, her words direct and to the point of what she knows, while his painted beautiful images that danced in her mind as she fell asleep each night.  
  
“But I hope you can understand that I feel almost out of control when I look upon you,” he continues, leaning forward to lay a kiss upon her forehead. “My Warrior Queen,” he murmurs, a kiss to the lids of her eyes, “My Lady Wildling,” a kiss upon the tip of her nose, “Eddara,” he finally whispers against her mouth, pulls away before she can slant her lips against his, and she whimpers in protest.  
  
“You play unfairly, my lord,” and she feels almost as if she is pouting, restrains her arms to not cross over her chest in annoyance. But he laughs and merely replies:  
  
“I could never consider you a game, Ned.” And just like that, he is looking at maps of the North again, and asking questions about various lords, how to best impress them without a sword, their likes and dislikes, and Ned has to force herself to reply, to think.

* * *

  
Honestly, she has no idea why she had felt like retching earlier that morning as her ladies dressed her. Merete was most concerned over the gown, while Gudde had held an empty chamber pot under her chin as she tried to calm her breath. The ceremony was warm in the godswood, and she was glad of the lace window Inger had declared was to cover her bare back, much to Ned’s skeptical look.  
  
White fur had lined the lace and the hem of her dress, while Winter Roses adorned her bodice, and finally, a pearled and beaded open veil lay heavy on her head. Inger had said they had found it stored amongst her late lady mother’s things, alongside the maiden cloak, both of which now rested on her chair while Kit spun her around the great hall in a dance, passing her onto her bannermen whenever the music changed.  
  
It is a much slower song that plays when she and Kit are united again, and really it was all quite easy, she thinks, absently listening to the words the minstrel sings, not quite realising how obscene the words really are(honestly, the impromptu toast the Greatjon had given would have made even Robert proud). Due to Jon, she had been declared fair game as loud japes had passed through the hall about her new husband living up to her previous lover’s reputation, and tricks learned from the South.  
  
Whenever she had blushed, they would roar with laughter, and Ned would protest it the wine. As they continued to drink well into her stores, Ned could only justly think that she would make sure to have the hounds in the kennels wake up howling extra early the next morning.  
  
“Open my hands, lady fair, and let them weave unto yours,” she hears the minstrel sing sweetly as Kit smiles down at her, and Ned honestly has no idea why anyone could ever really worry about their wedding day when such as day as this could only lead to a husband like hers.  
  
It is only when the music stops and Harrion Karstark bellows ‘Bed Them!’ to the roar of approval from the Rivermen and Northmen alike, that Ned remembers why she had cause to be nervous.

* * *

  
The ritual isn’t truly terrible as she had imagined it as a child. She gamely exchanges japes with the men holding her up and is quickly stripped to her small clothes when she sees Jon come forward and gallantly throw his cloak over her, scowling at the men’s remarks about her breasts and wishing to have never been weaned off the teat. He waved them off and calmly walked her the rest of the way to her rooms, and Ned, not for the first time, wishes she had birthed him truly.  
  
She lets him sit her on the edge of her bed, kisses her on the cheek, and leaves just as they hear the Mormont women singing their charge up the corridor, Kit as near naked as she is, appearing in the doorway. Her two men, she thinks proudly, watching them stand next to each other, both silently nodding to each other, and before he closes the door, she blows her son a kiss, which to her delight, he catches, much like he used to do when he was younger, though recently declared was too old for it now.  
  
Deep breath, Ned. Deep breath.  
  
They are alone now, and Kit easily crosses the room to her, wrapping her up in his arms, to meet her mouth with his in a slow, deep kiss. He pulls back, resting his forehead to hers.  
  
“Wife,” he rumbles with a smile that can only best be described as predatory, and Ned can only force herself to breathe steady as he slowly peels off the cloak from around her, allowing it to fall with a whisper to the floor, his warm hands skating down her sides to her hips, gently pushing her small clothes to fall down her legs. Slowly, he kneels before her, laying open kisses to her neck, her breasts, the curve of her stomach, her hip, and Ned feels her toes clench in anticipation as he looks up to her.  
  
“Have you ever been kissed, my lady?” It is a silly question, she thinks, letting out a short breath of laughter.  
  
“Aye. By you, my lord,” she replies with a nod, a rare smirk on her lips. And yet he shakes his head at her return, elaborates, eyes shining.  
  
“No,” he says, his large, warm hands cupping her arse, squeezing gently. “Have you ever been kissed so to the point of not even knowing where you were? As if you can no longer breathe if you wanted to, where your words of Winter no longer matter, for you cannot stop the heat inside?”  
  
Her lips part, watching as his mouth ghosts over her hip bones, trailing to the apex of her thighs, tries to think. Has she been kissed as such? Hesitantly, she nods, thinking back on the times she has spent with him, the moments when they really should have been watching Jon and Theon spar in the yard, instead stealing away deep into the forge, Mikken’s glorious store room of gleaming blades around them in the shadows, the heat of the fires at her back, intense in it’s heat.  
  
But this is the wrong answer, it seems, and Kit shakes his head ‘no’.  
  
“You are lying to me, my lady wife? And already not a day wed,” he tuts, voice teasing, and Ned shakes her head with vigor.  
  
“No my lord, I would never deceive you, you know this,” she pleads with him, as he laughs a hot breath against her skin, and Ned finds herself quite wet, and shifts her weight slightly, seeking out friction.  
  
“I only accuse you of lying, my lady, for I do not believe you have ever been kissed by a lord,” Ned furrows her brow at this, about to point out that he is a lord, that she has indeed been kissed by himself, when his hands begin to part her legs and he is nuzzling the hair on her mound with a sigh, and Ned’s not quite sure she knows how to respond anymore.  
  
“Gods, Eddara, you’re so _wet_ for me,” he whispers, and all Ned can do is let out a squeak as he slides his tongue languidly along her cunt, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he had all the time in the world, and she struggles to keep herself upright, hands grasping for purchase in his short curls, raking her nails against his scalp.  
  
“K-kit,” she manages, and decides it might be for the best if she tried not to speak. And her lord husband seems to agree with her, ‘shush’ing her as the vibrations from his lips and tongue trace lazily around her nub, and Ned almost forgets to breathe as he slips a finger into her, gently caressing the soft skin within, curling towards him, finding a rough bundle of nerves she never even knew existed.  
  
“Gods, so tight, Eddara, so sweet. I could sup on your cunt forever, my love,” and frankly, Ned wishes she could tell him to just do so, to stop talking altogether, for she’s not sure she can stand the heat in her face anymore at his words, his voice more potent than the words of ink he had sent her the month previous.  
  
His thumb is teasing her, angling just so over her nub as he slides a second curling finger into her, and Ned fairly sees stars shooting around the room as she feels her legs collapse from beneath her, slowly realising that they are both now sitting on the rushes. Ned pants, eyes dazed as she looks to her incredibly pleased husband.  
  
“You are so loud, Eddara,” he purrs, and Ned thinks she’ll have to ban people from ever calling her by her full name again, “one might think you wanted your men to know how much pleasure your husband gives you.”  
  
Shakily, she nods. “I should think they will be well pleased to hear that, husband,” she manages, voice deep as she leans forward to his lips. “They care a great deal about their Lady’s well-being, after all.” And as he closes the gap between them, a distant roar can be heard from the party in hall beneath them, and she smiles into his kiss.  
  
He gently lays her down on the floor, and she can feel the rushes twitching beneath her back, attempting to scratch an itch unknown to them, as Kit hovers over her. Ned looks up into his blue eyes, normally filled with such spark, and sees a serious tone in them.  
  
“This may hurt, my love,” ( _love love love_ ) he says seriously, lovingly, with affection.  
  
Ned bites her lip and nods in agreement-she had heard it to be painful for a woman, and remembers the camp followers who would trail along behind her during the rebellion, eager to know which of the men they were to bed were lords, how much they had to their name; remembers the stories the women had told around the camp fire, sharing their salacious tales of their first nights with a man, how much better it was after ridding themselves of their burdensome maidenhead (that had been the night Ned had heard of an incredibly detailed encounter with Robert, and had had to depart from the woman’s company after that, a queasy feeling in her stomach).  
  
She braves a smile up at him, running a hand down his smooth cheek, and leans up for a quick, chaste kiss on the lips.  
  
It’s a pressure she’s never known before, as he slowly enters her, a low growl in his throat as he buries his head into her neck, teeth nipping at the skin. He does not stop, and Ned can feel the sharp sting within her, unlike any battle wound she’s ever had, yet almost quite like the time she had, in her youth, grabbed a sword by its blade, thinking it to be blunt and dull, and dearly paying the consequences as she had watched her fingers bleed with a fury before Robert had cursed and pulled her away to the maester.  
  
Those are the scars Kit now kisses with such delicate ease, pulling her hand from his hair, raising his face to hers, lusty blue eyes staring down at her as Ned shifts her hips a little, wincing a little at the newness. He leans down to kiss her again as she runs her hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense beneath her touch.  
  
“We shall go slow,” she whispers as he pulls away, nodding in agreement, beginning to gently rock his hips against her. As he bends to meet her breasts, lips suckling, teeth teasing around her nipple, Ned feels a shock of lightning shoot through her; and after mentally berating herself for acting shy after all Kit has done with his mouth on her body, she reaches her hand down to where their bodies meet, feeling the slickness between them, as he pulls back, a loud moan on his lips as he pushes back in.  
  
Her fingers dance between them, seeking out her own pleasure (it is her wedding day, after all, she reasons), while her other hand grips tight to his neck, his shoulder, his back, his head of luscious red hair she often times finds herself jealous of.  
  
As he hikes one of her legs over his hips, her other moving of it’s own volition, Ned cries out words she’s not sure even exist, words she’s never head of, and though she feels sore, this new openness creates tremors throughout her body. Her voice keens out his name as something just snaps within her, her muscles tightening around him, and she just- _oh, gods_.  
  
It washes over, this pleasure, and her fingers feel electric as she touches him, feels him thundering towards his own peak, following the lightening that flashed through her.  
  
They have been laid out panting on the floor next to each other for a few heartbeats, hands clasped between them, her thighs sticky with blood and his seed when she is finally able to mutter out:  
  
“Gods, Kit. I should have asked you to marry me months ago.”  
  
She looks to him as he begins to howl with laughter, and smiling wide, she joins him, nuzzling into his shoulder with a quick kiss as he wraps an arm around her.


	6. Creep In With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A smidge shorter, and sorry for the delay (not really that much of a delay...), but I wanted to have at least half of the next chapter written up before posting this. Otherwise it goes all 'out of sight, out of mind' for me, and then I'd never finish this. So yeah.

It has been near a week since she had been wedded and bedded, and Ned cannot understand how people believed her when she arrived with baby Jon in her arms all those years ago. For she has never felt more unlike herself. Her body feels lighter than usual, and yet once she sets eyes upon her new husband, she can think of nothing else, and has to force herself back into whatever conversation she was presently engaged in. It is worse when he looks to her with a heavy gaze, such hunger in his eyes that she feels suddenly naked before him, despite her skirts and breeches firmly wrapped around her.  
  
Honestly, how has no one noticed? Except, they do notice. They are noticing their Lady in love and newly wed, not a woman tired from war and grief pretending to be mother.  
  
And so she continues on with her duties, and when she can, watches as her husband quickly adapts to his. Running a household is no laughing matter, and yet as she watches her husband talk with ease to the staff who are loading the carts, readying for their trip to the great houses, she finds herself with a rueful smile, pride stirring in her chest as she leans against the ledge, looking down to the yard from the rookery.  
  
Jon seems to have taken to Kit with a quiet love and awe, this man who married his mother, his mother who isn’t like other mothers, and in Jon’s eyes, this makes Kit something special, someone to be around as much as possible. She sees it when Jon begins showing his newly learned arrow and bow skills to Kit before her, and though she has shared Jon with Winterfell all his life, she cannot stop the wave of jealousy at her child looking to another parent.  
  
It is the opposite with Theon, however, her unofficial child with whom she has purposefully put some distance towards. They both know why he is here. And for that, her relationship with him remains stilted, formal. Kit, however, politely ignores the boy when he can. Though Ned has also discovered that whenever her lord husband is even more delightfully filthy with his words at night, it is most likely that he has caught the young Greyjoy blatantly staring at her breasts in her gown, her arse in her breeches when she spars with Ser Rodrik.  
  
She feels a slight shiver run down her spine as she recalls the night previous, feels her cheeks burn with a blush when Jon innocently asked her if she had pulled a muscle in her leg as she whimpered into her seat while they broke their fast. She’ll have to talk with him, she thinks, before Theon does. Though she does not think her son to so quickly disrespect or dishonour a woman, she would rather he heard it from her.  
  
The eve before they are to depart she notices the way Jon looks to Kit, apprehension in his young face. And as she watches Kit nod back to him, encouraging smile on his face, she realises with a start that maybe her son has already asked his new father for advice on women, watching Jon make his way down the table to sit opposite the young Jeyne Poole who blushes bright red at his arrival. Ned hasn’t noticed her mouth fall open until she feels her husband gently push it closed, fingers gentle beneath her chin.  
  
She turns to him.  
  
“When did that happen?” she quietly blurts out, too shocked to muster up much anger as he twists his lips up into a smile.  
  
“Jon approached me, and asked me not to tell you. In return, he would show me where you like to hide the good wine from the guests.”  
  
She is gaping at him now. The sheer audacity of it...  
  
“Ned,” Kit continues, voice soft and serious, “my lady-he is my son too, now.” And closing her mouth herself this time, Ned nods, remembering her how her lord father deferred to her lady mother in matters such as these before she died. Remembers the marriage contract that most men would walk away from, being relegated to taking charge of the home and the children.  
  
Ned cannot be selfish in this, she thinks, for she already has a magnificent husband who holds her secret safe, holds her heart, and has taken to his duties like a duck to water, despite his constant shivering in the Summer snows-she has had to move their official chambers where her mother used to sleep, the warm room a comfort to him.  
  
But as she looks at Jon and thinks of his next fast approaching nameday, she tramples on the jealous fire within her. She has much more than she ever hoped for, and realises with a pang that losing Jon would have happened no matter what.

* * *

  
They are in the Great Hall of the Last Hearth, the Umbers hosting them after a visit to Eastwatch, when Ned suddenly realises that though the company of the Smalljon has been pleasant (what one can only call a game of cups), Kit’s trip to his rooms to change his wine-soiled doublet is taking far too long.  
  
Using what she hopes is a beguiling smile, she beckons the Smalljon closer, a curling finger matching her curling lip and Ned tries to recall the actions of the women Robert so actively pursued in his youth, vaguely remembering a tilt to the head, and fluttering eyes.  
  
She will need to look him straight in the eyes however, so settles on an uncharacteristic giggle and tilting her head just so. She attempts to keep her words pretty.  
  
“Are you enjoying the feast, my lady?” he asks, young voice eager to please, motioning for a serving girl to refill her cup. Ned just smiles her nicest smile and take a sip, noticing the blush on his ruddy with wine cheeks. And though Ned is by no means experienced in the arts of seduction, she knows how captive and willing a young man can be when holding audience with a lady.  
  
“I am greatly enjoying it, my lord,” she replies kindly, “especially with you sitting by my side.”  
  
He breaks out into a toothy smile, and comments on how it was his duty as the host’s son to keep her company on such a summer’s night, especially with her lord husband not around, neglecting his duty.  
  
Ah, she thinks. That was much easier than she thought it would be, him offering up information with her hardly asking for it. Mayhaps she was better at subterfuge than she thought?  
  
She laughs, shaking her head as if he had told a silly joke, eyes wide, and boldly touches his arm.  
  
“In all the festivities and your company, I had all but forgot I had one, my lord,” she says, vow low in her confiding in him, forcing him to lean towards her a little more. It is unseemly, she thinks, but Ned no longer cares, just wants to know where her husband is and what they’ve done with him.  
  
“Tell me,” she asks, voice low, “do you know where he is, Jon?”  
  
And just like that, he bursts into laughter, taking a gulp of wine as he shakes his head at her, sitting back in his chair and says he wouldn’t know what a Southron lord gets up to this far North, but Ned can see in his eyes that he knows, he knows.  
  
So Ned gamely accepts a turn or two on the dance floor, hopes that the Greatjon knows what disrespect he and his men are showing her, and while being walked back to her rooms by the Smalljon, tells him as much. That finally seems to crumple his face a bit, as if something that had seemed a great jape was suddenly rife with consequences.  
  
“I shall return your lord husband to his rooms as soon as I am able, my lady,” he vows, even going so far as to kneel before her, head bowed. Ned is not amused, however.  
  
“You shall return my lord husband to _my_ rooms, my lord, and I shan’t sleep until he is there.”  
  
He looks up, looking awed. “My lady?”  
  
“Aye, my lord. And I shall sharpen my great sword in the mean time. I wonder how many strokes of a whetstone it takes before I see my husband again?” she ponders lightly, watching as the boy takes in the veiled threat. She may be in their home, but she is their Lady of the North. She watches as he bows again, and hurries off.  
  
It takes precisely thirteen strokes along Ice before her husband is pushed into the room, stumbling, giggling. He is drunk, she realises. Not just drunk, she thinks with a frown, nose crinkling in distaste as the wine practically oozes out of his pores, his breath, well and truly beyond drunk.  
  
So drunk, it seems, that he believes these to be his own rooms, and barely notices her as he tumbles onto the bed, beginning to snore loudly. They are to travel back to Winterfell the next morning, and so he shall suffer then, she thinks, putting away Ice and walking around to puff out the candles in the room.  
  
And oh, how he suffers, a soft groan torn from his mouth as he wakes up to the now agonising sounds of a stone scraping loudly against a blade.  
  
“Good morrow, my love,” she sings, looking up from the great sword, watching as he lifts his heavy head from the pillow to look at her, face weary. “are you ready for our travels this morning?”  
  
Kit groans, wiping his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I am sorry, my love.” he manages, and Ned crosses her arms in wait for his explanation. “I had come to change my clothes when the Greatjon suggested we bring more wine up for you, and so...”  
  
“Yes?” Ned prompts as his body looks to be winning this particular battle in going back into the protective cocoon of sleep. He starts.  
  
“And the next thing I know, I’m outside, and all his brothers are there-gods, they are large, aren’t they? And then they were asking questions of you and your well-being and it was _so cold_ , Ned, and so we all kept drinking to stay warm, and then I’m fairly sure something else happened, but then I woke up here.” He finishes his tale thumping his head back into the pillow, voice a whine, and Ned just rolls her eyes.

* * *

  
They are breaking their fast in the Great Hall, Kit washed up and wary, the Greatjon and his brothers looking well-rested and buoyant in their seats when she first hears it.  
  
Lord Ned and Lady Kit, they call them warmly.  
  
It infuriates her.  
  
Similar, Kit loudly voices, to how he first met his lady wife, thinking he was about to meet Lord Ned, the King’s best friend. And yet what he met was instead a lady with a man’s nickname, a woman with unstoppable strength and skill, and such great honour that he couldn’t help but fall in love with her.  
  
The lords around them nod while the ladies and serving girls let out an audible swoon, completely won over by this man of the South. It is not fair, she thinks, that he had such a way with words to win over the masses, inciting friendly whispers about him, while people took one look at her and though loyal and respected her, saw her as cold, closed off.  
  
Don’t be selfish Ned, she berates herself. You have so much-what does it matter if some think your quiet nature for disdain? It is one of the feelings she allows herself to feel once in a full moon, quickly squashing it until the next moon’s turn.

* * *

  
It has been three days since their return to Winterfell, when she realises what has truly been missed in their recent travels, and Ned buries herself deep in the godswood, allows herself a moment of panic. Just a moment, though-she must remember herself.  
  
As she approaches her husband, who looks over the recent construction of a small sept by her request, for he does not keep with the Old Gods, she realises that her face must be more telling than she originally believed.  
  
“My lady, are you ok? You look as though you have seen a ghost.” he asks with concern, and suddenly Ned feels all the previous panic melt out of her, discarded from her body entirely. She grasps his hand and pulls him to her, pressing it to her flat stomach.  
  
And for once, Ned has Kit gaping at her wide eyed.  
  
“My bleeding has come far too late for it to be anything else,” she softly confirms, watches as he looks at her torso as if it is the most glorious thing he has ever seen. Finally, he smiles.  
  
“Come-I’ll go find Jon, and we can tell him inside.”  
  
“Any excuse to get inside, my lord?” she teases and he nods gamely.  
  
“Aye, my lady. And you might have a Southroner within-must’ve allow them to get cold, must we?”  
  
And so Ned follows him inside.  
  
“You’ve only been married a month!” her son protests, and she and Kit must be looking at him the same incredulous look, as he quickly concedes, congratulating his mother with a hug that seems rare these days, his tenth nameday fast approaching, and Kit with a shake of the hand that Kit pulls into an embrace.  
  
Ned feels excited. She has a baby growing within her, and her family is surely coming together, close to being complete, a new pack that she won’t have fall apart at the drop of a sword, not like last time.

* * *

  
She is five months along when Jon turns ten, and she can’t help but attribute a mother’s madness to the tears that she has to hastily wipe away as she watches her son greet his guests. Ten is a mile stone for a boy-nay, a man, she thinks, and though she doesn’t want to embarrass him, watching him standing tall beside his lord father (they seldom use the word ‘step-father’, and for that she is glad, pleased at their closeness, watching with nostalgic eyes as Kit guides their child into manhood) feels like her tipping point.  
  
The swell of her belly had not stopped her from her duties luckily, yet they have facilitated many an argument between her and Kit, leading to him joining her on trips around her lands, something he had never done before. She knows it is only a matter of time before Luwin pleads with her to remain within Winterfell, to have the people ride to her if they need anything of her. Robert has already written to her inquiring about names, heavily hinting that his own was quite regal, while Lord Jon echos Luwin’s sentiments, stating that it would also give her a position of more power instead of being beckoned to every whim and call from her Northerners.  
  
But Ned will ride for as long as she can, knowing that this summer child will be a Stark through and through, and she cannot wait to tell it what lands it rode over while still in it’s mother’s belly.

* * *

  
Though she hears Luwin and the midwife tell her husband and Jon otherwise, Ned is in no way convinced that the birth of her daughter was in any way _easy_.  
  
No, it was bloody, it hurt, and halfway through it Ned wondered how women throughout the ages kept repeating such an act so painful. But once her little girl was cradled in her arms, quickly latching onto her breast, she couldn’t think of anything more rewarding.  
  
She is exhausted when Kit takes the babe from her arms, and she’s barely able to answer Jon as he peppers her with questions of names and when he can play with his new sibling and oh, the bed is just so soft...  
  
It is dark when she wakes, and on wobbly legs, Ned makes her way to where her husband and son lay on pillows before the fire, carefully lifting the babe from where she rests on Kit’s chest. Her eyes open, a pair of wide blue like her father’s to go with the tuft of red on her crown and Ned feels her heart stutter in response. She has created another person, here, in her arms.  
  
She settles into the chair, baby happily suckling on her teat, and watches over her sleeping pack.  
  
There are wolves at Winterfell again.


	7. Give Me A Little Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm unsure about this one...so please, let me know if anything seems stilted or forced. Hmm. :/

She’s barely back to her former self with a sword when she realises she’s with child again, and Ned decides she and her husband must talk.  
  
She had planned on bringing it up after dinner, and then after putting the baby Sansa to sleep in her crib, but Kit, it seemed, had other plans. And so with her husband’s insistent mouth latched onto her neck and an internal debate lasting a split second, Ned bravely whispers:  
  
“Kit,”  
  
He murmurs against her collarbone in return, and for some reason this is more difficult than wanting to tell him about her future non-pregnancies.  
  
“Kit,” she tries again, “Will you kiss me?”  
  
He pulls back and up to her lips in what can only be described as a bruising kiss, and her lips feel as though they are tingling, feels as though the magic of the heart tree itself is imbibed within them. And yet, not quite what she was asking for, so reluctantly, she pulls back.  
  
“Nay, my lady?” Kit breathlessly asks, brow arched. Blush high on her cheeks, Ned shakes her head, bites her lip and one more time:  
  
“Kit. _Kiss_ me, please?” She pleads, and judging by the look on his face that can only be described as cocky, smug, even, Ned delays yet another stilted attempt of matching his words.  
  
“Aye, my Lady Stark. I should be best pleased to kiss your wanton little _cunt_.” And at her small gasp, he marks his way down her body, sucking and hard nips with his teeth, and Ned feels as if she is melting.  
  
He is holding her in his arms as they both lay back amongst the furs, one lazy finger tracing, soothing the faint pink scars left around her waist since carrying Sansa.  
  
“There’s to be another,” she manages, voice thick and tired.  
  
“Another what?” he murmurs back against her temple.  
  
Ned swallows. How can she be so comfortable with a man, and yet be so green with her words, stumbling at every step? She clears her throat, says clearly:  
  
“I am with child again.”  
  
She feels him tense beside her for a moment before his arms tighten around her, kissing her temple, fingers now spread over her curved stomach, possessive of this new cub already.  
  
“This is good news, my lady.”  
  
“Aye,” she breathes, “but I have too many duties to the North to be able to take the luxury to-”  
  
“‘The luxury’? To what, to have a child? Ned, you shouldn’t have to consider children a luxury because of your duty!” Ned rolls out of his arms, and turns to look at him in the eye. He is standing now, and rather than anger, he looks more scared.  
  
“Is this what this was for?” he asks, gesturing to the rumpled bed. “To bed me and to tell me your will to rid yourself of child?”  
  
Ned frowns at the sudden turn in conversation. “I-no, my lord, Kit-I would never-” she stammers out, but her husband is not finished.  
  
“I have seen what this does to women, Ned, and I will not allow the same to happen to you-I cannot, I will not stand by as you give us a barren home and-” Ned pushes her hand to his mouth, kneeling before him on the bed-he is almost shouting now, and in the dark the fear in his eyes have turned to glistening tears not yet shed.  
  
“Kit,” she hushes, “I fully intend on keeping this child-your child, _our_ child in my belly. You did not let me finish my thought, my love, for I was to say that maybe after I should begin to drink some moon tea until there is time enough for another babe.”  
  
His arms are uncomfortably tight when he sucks her into his embrace, his face pressed into her hair, breathing heavily. Ned can hear his heart shuddering through his chest as she gently runs her fingers up and down his sides, tracing the long since faded scar that marked their beginning.  
  
His grip loosens and Ned pulls back, reaching up to cup his face gently, thumbs stroking his cheeks.  
  
“What is wrong, my love?” she asks gently. “Tell me, true, I ask of you.”  
  
Kit scrunches his eyes closed, taking a deep breath. The silence in the room only broken by the occasional crackle of the fire, and Ned wonders what could affect her strong, happy husband so.  
  
“My sister, my lady. She was with babe before a proper betrothal, before she wed your Lord Arryn, and when she drank the tea to cut the seed from the root within her, she went through much agony.”  
  
Ned nods, listening to his suddenly strained voice.  
  
“Jon has told me of her miscarriages and stillborn. I did not know she had-” she stops herself, starts again. “Moon tea is very safe, my love. Many women I have come across use it with great success and are still able to bring a child to term.”  
  
As he nods minutely at her, she tries to coax a smile out of him.  
  
“And seeing as how you’ve managed to give me yet another babe with Sansa not even weaned off my breast? I think we are in fair shape, my love. Honestly, some would say you were the one with the North within you, the way you worry so,” she attempts to jest, but Kit keeps looking at her with such strength behind his eyes.  
  
“My lady, _my_ Ned-then I fear you have wed a Wildling, for I will always hold worry for you in my heart.”  


* * *

  
They are returning from a deserter’s execution-both Jon and Theon’s first-when her steward greets them in the courtyard, face grim.  
  
“What is it, Vayon?” Ned asks, voice brisk.  
  
“We have had tell of grave rumours from Bear Island, Lady Stark.”  
  
Jon looks to his mother frowning as she tersely waves away Jory’s help, carefully dismounting from her destrier; he can no longer see his mother, unlike other mothers, but rather Lady Stark, far unlike other ladies.  
  
It is also clear that she is impatient as she beckons them to follow her into the Great Hall, only allowing a glimpse of her five month swell when she let out a little sigh as she sank into the seat, looking more like a Queen than a mother as she waited for Vayon to speak.  
  
“There has been talk of slaving, my lady,” he reports, voice clear.  
  
“The Mormonts?” Vayon nods to her question. “And what have they to report?”  
  
And Vayon, strong Vayon who Jon had once thought his father when he was young enough to not know, seems to waver, but only just under his lady’s steely gaze.  
  
“The talk, my lady, is about Lord Jorah. Lord Glover confirms these allegations himself.”  
  
The Hall seems to hold its breath, and Jon is even amazed Theon himself hasn’t an opinion to voice, but as he looks to his friend he sees he is merely holding back his voice. His mother’s voice can only best be described as a growl as she next speaks, slow, deliberate.  
  
“And what madness would have possessed a man such as Lord Jorah to partake in this-” she stops, a look of comprehension touching her guarded face.  
  
“My lady?” Vayon asks. Ned tightens her grip  
  
“Call for Hullen,” she announces, voice loud and clear as she pushes herself to stand. “Have him ready the horses, and have a raven send a summons to Lord Jorah to Deepwood Motte. We ride on the morrow to dispatch this penalty.”  
  
Jon can practically hear Theon cheering in delight-he had always spoke of wanting to “have another go at a Mormont lass” after his spectacular rejection at his mother’s wedding to Lord Kit (Theon hadn’t thought Jon witnessed that, and so Jon keeps quiet about his friend’s humiliation), but it is Maester Luwin who steps forward to voice his opinion as the rest of the hall busies itself in preparation.  
  
“My lady,” he begins, “this is not a trip I would recommend in your condition.” And Ned frowns at him.  
  
“I have just seen to a Night’s Brother’s execution, Luwin-I can ride, can wield my great sword.” She replies, as if it the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
“My lady, you are with child.” At this she lets out a snort, a huff.  
  
“I am still small with this child, Luwin. I am not an invalid, and this will not take but a month-”  
  
“You are almost six months with child, my lady, and the time-” but Ned cuts him off, voice icy.  
  
“Then I shall be quick about his penalty, Luwin. See to the ravens. That is all.” She dismisses the maester easily, and turns to leave, but spots Jon as if noticing him for the first time. “I’ll be in the godswood.”  
  
He nods, and she strides outside.  
  
Jon knows what this means, and Theon starts whispering wickedly about bedding a She-Bear as they make their way to his step-father and sister, summoning Lord Kit to the godswood for his mother.  


* * *

  
They ride hard to Deepwood Motte, and Ned is glad the summer snows have abated for a time. In her time as Warden and wife, she has had to work on her balance within her life, but the bitter tone that held to her husband’s words as she kissed baby Sansa on the head goodbye weighed heavy on her mind.  
  
No, Ned. This is not the time to think as a wife, not when a man’s life hangs in the balance, she thinks. But Kit has never not ridden with her while she was to go on long trips while with child, preferring to leave Sansa with her Septa and the ladies in waiting while he kept a worried eye on his wife, and Ned finds herself a little scared for when they return home. Her arguments about this child being so small in her belly did naught to sway her husband.  
  
They are less than a day from their destination when they are met by Galbart Glover himself, his son and men riding behind him, faces flush with the winds off the sea. They both dismount, and Ned finds herself alone with him, a small distance from the groups.  
  
“Lady Stark,” he greets, a face so grim that it makes Ned immediately wary.  
  
“Lord Glover,” she returns, “what news have you?”  
  
“My lady, it would seem that in response to your summons, Mormont took his wife and they make to leave Westeros.” He says, voice filled with anger.  
  
Ned, however, feels only disappointment.  
  
“And is this the search party you have sent for him, Master Glover?” she asks, gesturing to the group behind them.  
  
He flinches at the title, looking shamed. He deserves no less, she thinks.  
  
“No, my lady. I have sent out search parties for him and his wife along our borders, and have ordered my fleet to search any ship they come across, but there has been no sighting yet.”  
  
“Gods,” she grits out, feeling her jaw, her fists clench in frustration. “the man was selling to slavers, Galbart! How could this happen?”  
  
“My lady, I am sorry but-”  
  
“Yes, I know, Galbart.” She cuts him off, unwilling to hear what excuses he had to offer, and looks to the skies. The clouds are dark and circling. There will be nothing for it but to rest her men and horses in Deepwood Motte before turning for home. She sighs. “Mormont has great skill with a blade and he has a head for tactics, escape. If he has not been found yet, even with a wife by his side, we will not catch him now.”  
  
“My lady?”  
  
Gods, she felt useless. What kind of Warden allows a slaver to escape?  
  
“We shall spend three days at your hold, my lord, before we return to Winterfell. My men need to rest. And we shall send ravens to White Harbor and the smaller ports as well, if they have managed to escape by land.”  
  
Galbart bows deep, “Yes, my lady.”  
  
Ned just wants to kick herself.  


* * *

  
They remain at Deepwood Motte for almost two weeks before they can leave again. Maege Mormont arrives on their second day, her daughter Dacey in tow, pledging her fealty to House Stark, to the King, as the Lady of Bear Island.  
  
Ned takes this in stride, and makes sure to swallow her agreement as Dacey makes comments about ladies being not only expected to pick up after lords in the home, but on their lands as well, openly glaring at Robett Glover at what Ned can only assume she believed to be his ineptitude.  
  
What Ned does not anticipate are the sudden surge of summer snows, and though that would not be a factor to hinder any travels, Jon and two of the men wake with a fever of the pox, and have to be quarantined until recovered.  
  
It is not until they are to set for home, for Winterfell, when Ned realises just how large she feels. She is near seven and a half months pregnant, and watching how her son and ward and men mount their horses with such ease, Ned feels like a fool, staring at the stirrup before her, that gently bumps into her belly as Shadow shifts his weight, patiently awaiting his mistress to sit upon his back.  
  
But she’s not sure she can. The babe within has swelled to such a size where she doesn’t want to risk trying and failing to lift her leg up high enough, in front of her men. She can feel the mother’s madness swell deep within her heart, twisting it just so, turning her cheeks red in embarrassment, and is quite luckily saved from any further emotion-save relief-when Jory pops up next to her, a foot stool in hand.  
  
“You have my thanks,” she says as he takes her hand to balance upon the lift, and thankfully says nothing but grant her a small smile. Sweet Jory, she thinks, a faint memory of a young girl’s affection in her mind.  


* * *

  
It is a slow journey back to Winterfell, and as Theon requests a second rest stop for the third day in a row (they are barely going faster than a run, and much of the time Ned has them walk at a brisk pace, finding the bouncing uncomfortable), Ned begins to suspect something amiss with her men, who would quite regularly ride alongside her without complaint, even if they were beget with ailments.  
  
Tomard is the one who unwittingly clues her in, as they sit around the fire that evening, mentioning another path they could take to Winterfell. She frowns.  
  
“But this is much more direct, Tomard. And the other-” she purses her lips, thinking of the more comfortable road, where they would have more chances to come upon an Inn.  
  
“Are you with child, Tomard?” she asks, taking a sip of her ale. The men around them guffaw, and make jest of his fat belly. Tomard has an anxious look on his face.  
  
“No, my lady.” She nods.  
  
“Aye. And yet you would prefer us to take a slower path, with more Inns along the way?”  
  
Tomard glances at Jon, who quickly averts his eyes. _Ah_. She raises her voice to properly address the problem.  
  
“I am a child of the North, as is the child within me. And us children of the North consider the forest floor our bed, the fire our hearth, and the company of loyal, strong, Northmen company enough. We have no need for Inns.” She finishes, and with a glance at Jon, who is finding his knees very fascinating, she raises her cup in a toast.  
  
“The North!” she calls out, and the men echo her words back to her in a cheer.  


* * *

  
Truly though, Ned believed this to be true-the firm, uneven ground beneath her back soothed the aches she went through during the day, and though sometimes a necessity, considered Inns an extravagance, especially during the summer. She was a soldier before she was a mother, and camping with her men and son felt like an escape from the world of Wardens and Lords, nothing but the stars above them for company.  
  
So they maintain their slow pace, and as they come closer to Winterfell, Ned begins sending men onward in small groups-both to let her husband know of her impending arrival, and to not further prolong their journey due to her pace. They had been hesitant at first, but Ned encourages them to get home faster, to their beds and wives and wenches and wine, and that there would be the few who remain by her side, all the way through the gates.  
  
The remaining men and horses are taking a much needed drink for the last time before reaching Winterfell, when Ned realises that what she had initially thought were cramps were actually labour pains. It is when she feels the release of water that she has her suspicions confirmed, and in her most controlled voice, calls Jon over from where he is sitting with Theon.  
  
She smiles brightly at him-a little too brightly, perhaps, as Jon gives her a perplexed look.  
  
“Mother...?” he says slowly.  
  
And Ned is suddenly very glad that though she is most comfortable riding in breeches, that she continues to wear her modified skirts, for her son has yet to see the wet stain running down her legs.  
  
“Jon,” she breathes. “my boy. The newest Stark has decided to join us a few weeks earlier than planned.”  
  
Jon’s face goes slack, and Ned cuts off any panic by continuing on.  
  
“You and Theon shall ride as fast as you can to Winterfell, and send word to your father and Luwin. I shall continue to ride along the road, and we can meet in the middle. Ok?”  
  
He nods, slow at first before his eyes settle on her large stomach, and widen in fear.  
  
“Jon,” she says, voice stern. “I need you to be brave about this-I have taught you how to deal with lords and smallfolk, you must also be able to treat with pregnant women.”  
  
“Yes, mother.” He croaks out, and at her nod, makes his way quickly to his friend, who looks over to her with wide eyes, and Ned just waves them to ‘go!’, which they do, scrambling onto their mounts and riding as if the foes beyond the Wall from Old Nan’s tales were behind them.  
  
Jory approaches her then.  
  
“My lady?”  
  
She turns to him.  
  
“Help me onto Shadow, Jory. We need to make some progress toward Winterfell before my lord husband decides to kill me for my foolish nature.” He nods.  
  
“Aye, my lady.”


	8. Share The Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never quite know what to write here. So yeah. More stuff happens.

Watching Kit and Sansa run after a squealing, muddy Arya through the yard, Ned wonders if he will ever forgive her for greeting him on the road back to Winterfell with a freshly birthed babe at her breast, face flushed, the men behind her looking harried, while he, along with Luwin, and a midwife looked as stunned as if she had stated she had decided to join a mummer’s troupe.  
  
(Jon had written that Robert had laughed himself into a stupor at the news, that he had thoughts of sending the babe beyond the Wall to treat with the Wildlings, having been born one herself)  
  
But as he scoops her up and Sansa looks on with a smile while loudly proclaiming with authority that her three year old sister was a Wildling, having been born in the woods, after all, he catches her eye and winks, marching the girls to their bath, Sansa on his tail, asking if she could pick out what Arya would wear and if they could “make her hair pretty like mama’s”.  
  
And oh, do people ever compare Ned and Arya in looks. Vayon and Jory like to call her a miniature Eddara, but all Ned can see is Lyanna, her younger sister brought back to life, running around after her older brother, not caring when her skirts became a mess of mud and grime, while Jon, now fourteen, would gently pull her up to her feet, laughing with Theon whenever she made to reach for the pommel of his sword, always falling short.  
  
The servants like to compare the two girls, barely one year apart in age, and how different they are, the lady and the wolf-child, but Ned and Kit know different. While Sansa is purely Tully in looks and has her father and brother wrapped around her little finger, both ready to play the knight and the dragon to save her, the princess, who sits demurely in her tower, sewing a favour for her saviour, Sansa has also taken a great interest in her mother’s past life.  
  
It is the fact that her mother chose her father, asked her father for his hand, that captivates the young girl the most, and when she has heard her lessons on the subject, primly announces one night at dinner:  
  
“I think I shall marry a man from Dorne, mama.” Kit had choked on his wine, hearing his four year old girl make such an announcement, while a gaping Ned finally found the words previously lost to her.  
  
“And why is that, my duckling?” Sansa just gives her a mother a look as if it should be obvious to even Hodor.  
  
“The ladies inherit there, and I should like to run my lands like you, mama.”  
  
Jon and Theon just snickered while Arya looked on, confused-knowing, much like her brother and sister before her, that her mama wasn’t like other mamas, but not sure how or why quite yet.  
  
“Sansa, if you were to marry a man from Dorne, it would be his lands to command, with you by his side as his lady wife.” Kit points out, wiping the remains of the wine from his doublet.  
  
Ned is just shocked that Sansa knows how to roll her eyes already to really attempt to chastise her daughter’s attitude.  
  
“Yes, but I will help-like you and mama, and we shall have children and we will take turns, of course.”  
  
Ned makes a point of asking Septa Mordane and Luwin what exactly they are teaching her daughters the next day. The Septa is innocent in her response, reports that Sansa has the makings of a great lady, and asks sensible questions for a child her age, while Arya remains resistant to too much structure. Luwin, on the other hand, appears to have been teaching them the histories of the houses, intertwined with Ned’s own story, liberally making example of her own leadership to those of the men before her.  
  
“Measter Luwin-are you not supposed to be more neutral in your history lessons?” and Ned feels scandalised that a Maester could possibly be twisting the facts of her own attempt at rule.  
  
“Lady Eddara, I am but teaching them the strength of their lady mother, the Warden of the North, and how uncertain you were when accepting the position, but how you have truly grown into it.” He gently replies, and Ned wonders how one could sound so wise all the time. “I would have thought you would want your daughters prepared for whatever in life might happen, grave or great.”  
  
And so Ned agrees, and as she relays what she has been told to her husband that night, he reveals that he has in fact also been telling their girls similar tales. It’s all she can do but just pinch the bridge of her nose and marvel at the madness around her.  


* * *

  
Though she sleeps without the blankets, quick to kick them away in the night, Ned always feels as though she is suffocating when her husband is particularly cold and has the fire stoked to a stifling degree of heat, on top of the already warm room.  
  
It is when his delightful fingers trail down her spine when Ned truly feels as though he were lighting a flame on her skin, waking her up to the morning with a shiver, his warm lips peppering her shoulders and neck with kisses, and as she turns into his kiss, his touch, eventually mounts him, Ned tells herself it would be a comfort for him to be so close to the warm mattress, rather than be too exposed to the cooler morning air.  
  
He shudders against her rolling hips as she pins his arms down above his head, and it is slow, oh so slow as his chest rumbles against hers, the friction of his skin beneath hers eliciting a loud call from her as she arches into, onto him.  
  
“Look at you, Eddara,” his voice curls into her ear, a vicious attack on her senses while his hands lay tense beneath hers. “Riding your husband like a mount, waking up the entire castle with your pleasure,” his breath is hot against her, his beard scrapes delicately along her jaw, and her breath hitches as his hips thrust up to meet hers.  
  
And Ned can’t stop herself, not really, not when he’s so insistent and she’s so close, so when she reaches a hand down to that nub, and his rough fingers follow, she’s sure it won’t be long, not when-  
  
“Mama! Papa!”  
  
Ned shrieks as she scrambles away from her husband, feeling her blood freeze at the sound of their youngest at the open door, smiling a gap-toothed good morning to them. Kit looks no better as he swears under his breath, and pulls the blanket over them, and Ned is sure her hammering heart beat must reflect his own.  
  
“Arya,” she starts, voice cracking. Kit smirks at this, and she frowns at him, face red. “What is it, kidlet? Is everything ok?”  
  
The little girl just nods, and runs towards them, vaulting herself up onto her papa’s chest, leaving him breathless, and curls herself into her mama’s side, looking with wide eyes to her papa, mouth opening with awe at the long scar that ran down his side.  
  
“Papa, what’s that?” she asks, small fingers pointing to his uncovered torso. Both Kit and Ned look to where she is pointing, and Ned just collapses onto her back, letting out a deep breath. Let Kit handle this.  
  
“That’s a scar, kidlet. I got it when I was fighting in the Ironborn Rebellion with your mother.”  
  
“Really?” And just like that, Arya is captivated by the tale she has heard before, but has never seen evidence of.  
  
Kit nods.  
  
“And so as I lay there, injured, your smart, clever, beautiful mother,” Ned rolls her eyes, and smiles at this, “cleaned up my wound and-”  
  
“Was it bloody?” Arya interrupts, anxious for the gory details.  
  
“Oh, it was very bloody, kidlet. That’s what war is.” Ned cuts in, and their young girl gasps.  
  
“Yes, and so she very neatly stitched up my side into this fine scar.” Kit finishes. Arya scrunches up her face, thinking, and finally turns to her mama.  
  
“Stitches? Like Septa makes us do?”  
  
Ned nods, suddenly remembering the first time she had sewn up Robert, his young voice howling in pain, and her hand shaking with nerves. “Yes, Arya. That’s how I learned, with other ladies in a sewing circle.”  
  
The young girl bows her little head, her dark hair falling around her face.  
  
Kit raises an eyebrow at Ned. “Arya, are you- _oof_!” And just like that, she is crawling over him again, this time landing a knee right in his stomach, and jumps off the bed, a little whirlwind out the door.  
  
“I have to sew, bye bye!” her little voice chirps back to them, and Kit and Ned are left in silence.  
  
“So if we closed the door we-”  
  
“Too late, husband.” Ned interrupts lightly, hopping off the bed herself to get ready for the day. “But after dinner isn’t too late,” she amends to his groan of discontent, stopping as his hand wraps around her wrist.  
  
“I’d say we have time enough during lunches, my lady.” He returns, eyes dark and full of promise.  
  
Ned just grins.  


* * *

  
The red blooms quickly, a flower emerging in the square of silk, and Ned hisses in response, bringing her bloody finger up to her mouth. It has been a long time since she has pricked herself thus, but this is no ordinary sewing circle she sits with.  
  
Sansa sits upright and proud of her clean, clear stitches, whilst her younger sister huddles over her own, studiously serious, slow and precise. They are both growing so fast, and so Ned finds herself forgoing the hunt with her husband and son to sit with her ladies and daughters. It is not common for her to do so, but Ned had spent that morning in the godswood, listening to the light rustle of leaves, peaceful in their descent to the forest floor, and felt as if the gods had heard her prayer of a peaceful Fall to make way for the harsh of Winter.  
  
And so Ned takes the opportunity to sit peacefully with her girls, except she had not quite realised that though only a year apart, and both with similar ambitions (Sansa, to be a lady ruling her lands with her Dornish husband-she is very steadfast in this-like her mother, and Arya, to be able to best a man grown with a sword, like her mama), the girls could not be more different in personality, and Ned finds herself distracted by their bickering.  
  
“I said, _no_!” Her youngest snarls.  
  
“Arya, just let me see it...” Sansa retorts, tugging at her sister’s circlet.  
  
“Sansa!”  
  
“Let. Me. _See_.”  
  
“Girls! In front of your lady mother, no less?” Septa Mordane’s cold voice cuts through the air, and both girls’s eyes whip to their mother, who, thankfully, has taken her finger from her mouth, and looks to them with knowing eyes, brows raised.  
  
“Sorry mother,” they chorus, Arya mumbling while Sansa chirps, both turning back to their sewing.  
  
Honestly, Ned thought. Wars were easier than daughters.  


* * *

  
It’s Sansa’s sixth nameday, and Ned’s not sure why or how, but she and Kit have managed to lock themselves in the library, while the children, lead by Jon and Theon, play out in the yard and godswood, and though Kit and she should really be putting the final touches on their daughter’s feast, the groan that comes from her husband’s throat says otherwise.  
  
His hand is in her hair, and he’s leaning heavily against the bookcase, his other hand gripping for purchase as Ned swirls her tongue around the head of his cock, her hand stroking his shaft, squeezing in time with the filthy diatribe that’s spilling from his lips between gasps.  
  
“Eddara,” he moans, and Ned hums around his cock in response. “Yes, take it, my love, you want it, don’t you...” he trails off as Ned hollows her cheeks around him, and she doesn’t know what comes over her, but she pulls back and looks up at him and says:  
  
“Shut up, Kit. I-I’m going to suck your cock until you can’t breathe.” She growls out, voice surprisingly steady, and based on his glassy eyes alone (not to mention his weeping cock), Ned feels oddly proud of herself. She had tried talking back at him many times before, but his responses had mostly been smiles and comforting caresses on her cheek, a kiss to reward her, almost. But now, now she knows, looking at his still body, that she’s said something right.  
  
And if his initial response hadn’t confirmed that, his pulling her up onto the table next to them, fingers diving under her skirts, hastily pushing away her small clothes certainly does.  
  
“Oh, my lady,” he grumbles against her neck, his rough beard, not yet trimmed for that night’s celebrations, rubbing her skin red, and she revels in the sensation, arching against him as his fingers circle around the bundle of nerves, sliding through her wet folds with urgency, and this, this is like having your breath stolen from you, she thinks.  
  
“My lady _Eddara_ , spewing such terrible, nasty words...what would your men say, hmm? I bet they never thought their Lady Stark would say such things.”  
  
And she feels emboldened somehow, just really wants him to be _in_ her, and finds to her surprise that she’s actually said so. His lips curl into a smile that she hopes no one else will ever see, his eyes dark before hers.  
  
“Spread your legs wide for me, my sweet, my love,” he purrs, hooking an arm under her knee, holding her close to his chest. “You are mine, now.”  
  
And Ned calls out as he pushes into her, the angle so vastly different, opening her up as he thrusts against her rolling hips, and the friction, oh the friction...this heat, so quick to coil tight within her is being stretched beyond her control, and Kit captures her mouth with his, swallowing her moan as she feels her release, a whip lash in her body, around her body, and she holds him tight, her anchor to the ground, as he reaches his own shuddering, stuttering peak.  
  
She’s boneless, she can feel it, as she lays back onto the table, pulling him to lay on top of her, both of them heaving.  
  
He can’t possibly be comfortable, but his weight remains heavy on her as she twines her fingers within his hair, his head resting on her chest.  
  
“Oh,” she finally breathes. Her husband leans up on his arms, looking at her, a pleased grin in place.  
  
“Indeed, my lady,” he murmurs, and kisses her softly, and they lay there for a moment, listening to the faint cries of laughter from the children in the yard below.  
  
They’ll have to get moving soon, and it’ll be a rush to get things finished, for Ned to bathe and dress, to ready herself and Sansa (a tradition they have developed, and Ned does so love brushing her daughter’s hair), in time for the celebration, but for now, they hold each other, letting the laughter and squeals from below wash over them.  


* * *

  
Sansa is busy chattering on about what songs she should like to hear, when Kit quietly comes into the room, a cup in hand. Sansa frowns when he gives it to her mother behind her, brush in hand.  
  
“Why don’t I get a cup? It is _my_ nameday.” She pouts a little, but Ned ignores her, and looks to her husband, the freshly brewed moon tea in her hand. He raises a brow as she hesitates.  
  
“I think you and mother will dance to Two Hearts That Beat As One,” Sansa is now saying, caught up in her celebrations again. “It shall be so romantic, like in the songs,” she sighs, leaning into the brush Ned is stroking through her hair.  
  
“My lady?” Kit asks, and Ned bites her lip. She looks to Sansa, now six, and thinks on little Arya, already so close to turning five, on Jon, who had just recently turned sixteen, at the moon tea, and then back to her husband. Her lips twitch in a silent question, and as she sees his eyes light up, a grin slowly growing on his handsome face, she knocks the cup over.  
  
“Mother! How could you be so clumsy?” Sansa scolds, holding her skirts of her best dress to the side.  
  
“Yes, I’m a silly mother, aren’t I?” Ned replies, leaning down to kiss her daughter on the top of her head. But Sansa is back to her songs, and Kit laughs as she suggests ‘The Dornishman’s Wife’ be played after ‘Florian and Jonquil’, and Ned has to do her best to dissuade her determined girl without revealing the true meaning behind the words of a song she only knows in title.  


* * *

  
Ned is at her desk, trying to write a formal letter to Prince Doran, to broach the subject of bringing their two houses together when Kit comes to find her. It is harder than she thinks, thinking on how House Stark had already played a minor hand in betraying their Queen Elia not so long ago, and no matter how diplomatic she tries to be, it doesn’t quite seem to come out how she would like.  
  
So she is relieved when he walks in, throwing down her quill, eager for a break, and leaning back in her seat, resting her hands on her lightly curved belly.  
  
“My lord, I fear you shall have to speak for me to the Martells about Sansa’s betrothal, for I cannot find the words to not offend, nor to remind them of the past.” She remarks, leaning into his hands as they massage her shoulders.  
  
“I will look into that, my love,” he says, and she continues her train of thought.  
  
“I would even ask you to send a raven to House Dayne-they are an honourable house, certainly worthy of your daughter’s hand, but I fear _I_ have soiled that friendship...” she muses, and looks up to him. “You have such a way with words, Kit, you could probably have the Silent Sisters speak by the end of a short conversation.”  
  
She smiles up at him, and he grins lightly in return.  
  
“I shall do what needs to be done, my lady,” he says, dipping down for a kiss to her brow, “and you shall also do what needs to be done.”  
  
“My lord?”  
  
Kit grimaces, before speaking.  
  
“There has been another deserter, my lady, from the Wall.” She frowns, and shakes her head ruefully.  
  
“Aye?” Kit nods in confirmation, and she sighs, noticing Vayon by the door. “Vayon, have Sansa’s pony readied, she will be riding with us.” He nods ‘yes, my lady’, and leaves them.  
  
“Ned, she is only six, and-” but Kit cuts himself off, frowns, watching his wife push herself up and stand before him.  
  
“She is six, yes. And she is a girl, a lady-yes. But I was six once, and though it terrifies me to even think of Sansa going through what happened to my family, I would rather she be prepared, to be brave.” She gestures to her desk, “She is only six, and yet we are already writing for her hand, and this is the third Black Brother this year. We are living in a world of peace, but Winter is Coming, my love.”


	9. Feel Me Completed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is legit turning into the longest pregnancy in the world. I am so sorry, Ned.
> 
> Edit: Also, I can't believe I never said, but a HUGE thank you to those who comment. You are all way too kind and thoughtful and wise and amazing.

Father had frowned when he had called her out from her sewing circle, but Sansa didn’t think much on it, relishing the cool air flying through her hair-though she could have done without the pony. Sansa doesn’t think much of riding, but she she supposes she’ll learn well enough when she’s older. Mother is so confident astride Shadow, and after learning of Sand Steeds, Sansa knows she shall have to practice if she is to be able to ride with her husband.  
  
It’s all a little exciting, really, riding out with her older brother and mother, leaving Arya behind to her silly stitches that never look like roses or wolves-no, her little sister just kept stitching her stupid squares and triangles and circles. Gods forbid she should ever put one stitch out of line, however. Sansa rolls her eyes at the memory of Arya spewing forth a terrible word that Septa Mordane had hit her over the hand for, and all over a silly little stitch that Sansa thought could have easily been turned into a pretty petal if she had kept going. But Arya had just frowned at her then, and buried herself back into her work.  
  
They arrive at the holdfast over the hills, and she sits next to Jon, trying to appear taller than she is, next to his leggy mare and sixteen year old self, both watching from a distance as mother exchanges words with the man from the Night’s Watch, so unlike her uncle, who always looked so...presentable whenever he came to Winterfell. Theon is standing by mother and Jory, and Sansa doesn’t know why she never noticed it before, but mother doesn’t quite look like mother anymore, almost as if she had put on a mask.  
  
No, she is Lady Stark now, and Sansa attempts to school her face into the same expression, listens as Jon shifts his mare closer to her.  
  
“Keep hold of your pony, Sansa. And don’t look away, ok?” She nods to him, tightens her fingers around the reins of her pony as they watch Theon step forward, the Stark great sword in his arms. It is frightfully large, Sansa thinks, and as it catches the light of the sun, she could not help but think of how beautiful it was.  
  
“In the name of King Robert Baratheon,” she hears her mother begin, and Sansa flaps her hair out of her face as a gust of wind rolls over the hills, whistling tunelessly through the holdfast. And almost as sharp as  the wind itself, her mother sweeps the blade through the man’s neck. Blood splashes across the snow, creating sporadic patterns, and Sansa can hear her pony whinny a bit.  
  
She didn’t look away.  
  
It will be when she is older, a year or two from now when Sansa truly understands her mother’s words to her after, her words of bravery and casting judgement, but for now, despite the pony, Sansa feels very much a woman grown.  


* * *

  
Ned knows Kit does not like sending their daughter to see a man’s life be ended by her mother’s blade, but she also knows he agrees with her to an extent. Their relationship had been strained for a while after Arya’s birth, and she felt her husband starting to distrust her with their children, but in this they both know she has the right of it. Just as she agrees he has the right of it when accepting their daughter’s hand on behalf of Trystane Martell.  
  
She doesn’t like it, but she knows it is right, what Sansa wants. And though they will have many years with their daughter still, before sending her South, Ned knows her husband doesn’t really like it either.  
  
But they will have more children, they whisper to each other in the night, tight in one another’s arms, their hands resting gently on the three month babe within her. It is still hardly noticeable, and Ned is excited at her last Summer child, wonders at how it will look, how it will act, and for Sansa’s sake, sends a small prayer to her gods that it will take after its father.  
  
Kit had told her, distressed, about how their daughter had been found in her room, crying her pretty little eyes out, nose red and face crumpled. Sansa, having caught a few scattered words in the wind about the ‘bastard Stark’ had initially thought nothing of it, but when looking to her sister and brother, so alike in looks, so alike in their interests, had come to the fast conclusion that it was she who was being talked about.  
  
And so Ned and Kit found themselves hovering outside their daughter’s open door, ready to gently explain about her brother, and what a truly terrible word ‘bastard’ really was, only to find Jon sitting with his arm around her, her head on his shoulder, Arya sitting dutifully by their feet.  
  
“So...so mother laid with another man?” Sansa whispers. Jon nods, and Arya studies the words spoken carefully, their meaning.  
  
“But you’re still our brother.” She states, defiant, as if daring Jon to say otherwise.  
  
“Yes, Arya. I’m your brother-we come from the same mother, after all. Just not the same father.” and Ned watches as Jon says this with a shrug, as if they were all having a casual, light conversation about the weather. She feels Kits hand squeeze hers in comfort, and she remembers to breathe.  
  
“And so because mother didn’t marry my father,” Jon continues, “I was a bastard for a while.”  
  
“A Snow,” Sansa says, staring into the fire, and he nods again.  
  
“Aye, Jon Snow,” he says, the words on his lips looking as though they taste wrong as he speaks them. “and then mother legitimised me, and named me her heir. Jon Stark now, half-brother to Sansa Stark and Arya Stark.”  
  
The girls both remain silent, and as Sansa raises her head and pulls away from Jon’s arms, Ned feels as though her heart is being ripped from her very body.  
  
“Brother. Just brother.” she finally chirps, and though her eyes and face are still red from tears, she looks fierce, a wolf among her pack.  
  
“Yeah,” Arya chimes in, now standing before her two older siblings, “you know nothing, Jon Stark.” She taunts, and Sansa giggles as Jon breaks out into laughter.  
  
It is later when Ned and Kit talk to Sansa alone, later when they find their daughter shrugging off the incident as if it were already old news.  
  
“He is in our pack,” she says, wide blue eyes looking up them, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.  


* * *

  
It is on Arya’s namedays when Ned allows herself to indulge in the fine gowns Inger, Merete and Gudde like to thrust upon her whenever they finish one. They express disappointment when their lady does not don these gowns on a daily basis, though they know their lady not to be like other ladies. But they also know that every year, on both their Lord Kit and Lady Arya’s namedays, Lady Eddara Stark will slip into the lush green damask skirts they have put together, the extravagant purple threads dancing around her bodice in intricate patterns.  
  
It is on Arya’s (and Kit’s) namedays when Ned dresses up in particular for two reasons. One, is to make up for Arya’s steadfast refusal to wear anything remotely pretty, so Ned (somewhat giddily, due to Sansa’s influence of a love of beautiful things) takes it upon herself to do so for her youngest, confident that some day Arya will acknowledge her own hidden desire to dress up, much like her mother had only discovered herself since her wedding day.  
  
The second reason, is Ned’s attempt at penance-every year, she and Kit are reminded of the circumstances of Arya’s birth, and though words have been exhausted on the subject, some small part of Ned thinks that dressing up might make things seem a little prettier than they are, that she might be one step closer to forgiveness for her foolishness.  
  
(Inger, Merete and Gudde know to make her gown especially elaborate when it is Lord Kit’s birthday, on Ned’s request. Ever since Ned discovered his enjoyment of unlacing her, unwrapping her, almost, she has done her best to accommodate. Her ladies and Sansa just think it terribly romantic for the normally plain-dressed Lady Stark to don a gown of such beauty for her lord husband’s nameday.)  
  
And so as Ned and Kit sit at the high table, watching, as they have done every year since she could move on her own accord, Arya display her hard-worked sword skills learnt with Ser Rodrik, their wooden blades clacking together in the Great Hall, she reflects on the world around her.  
  
Though troubling about the Night’s Watch dwindling to Castle Black and Eastwatch alone, the Kingdom is in fine hands, ruled over by her friend, who is in turn, carefully advised by their foster father. After the news had spread of Ned birthing Arya on the road, the North knows not to think that pregnancy will slow their Warden lady down, and other than formal requests or events, Ned has not had much trouble from them since.  
  
Arya and Ser Rodrik bow to them now, and Ned and her family clap in delight, pride, and in Sansa’s case, politeness. She watches as her youngest, now five, scrambles up to sit to her left, and as the serving girls come out with her favourite dishes, the birthday feast begun.  
  
Her _family_ , she thinks. The wolves are rising again, she muses, feeling the imaginary kick of the babe of three months within her, already hoping for a fifth soon after.  


* * *

  
If she were honest with herself, Ned had purposefully put aside all notion of creating a betrothal for Jon.  
  
Sansa had been easy, had already declared herself a Dornishwoman, sewing small direwolves within the orange sun of the Martell sigil, had, despite her initial discomfort, become dedicated to becoming a great horsewoman, readying herself for a great Sand Steed.  
  
Arya...would be more difficult, but Ned and Kit both figured that when the time came, she too would eventually embrace the match they would make for her. When she was older. They hoped. And would possibly pray.  
  
And so it should not come as a surprise to her when Luwin and Vayon approach her, asking:  
  
“Lady Eddara-have you perchance had any further thought on Jon’s future wife?”  
  
For they have had these discussions before, many of them. Before, Jon had been too young, still learning. Then, with Kit’s skillful words, they had been consumed with talk of joining the Martells, and what was to be in Sansa’s dowry, how the young Trystane was said to be, of Prince Doran’s gout and though he is the second son, they believed it better for Sansa to be close in age with the prince.  
  
“My lady...Jon is sixteen now, and the gods be good to you and your health, but the future Lord of Winterfell must have need of a wife soon.”  
  
Ned bites her lip in hesitation. Come on, Ned. He wasn’t even your son to begin with, it’s time to find him a lady wife.  
  
“We will arrange for Lady Wynafryd Manderly to visit Winterfell for a time. Lord Wyman is a...large, if not honourable man, and I believe this should be a suitable match for House Stark.”  
  
Both men agree, and before Ned can even tell Jon herself, word has quickly spread about the castle.  
  
“The Manderlys?”  
  
Ned nods, staring her son down, hoping he won’t have anything negative to say on the matter.  
  
“I have heard the Lady Wynafryd is older than I,” he finally tries, but they both know it is a feeble argument.  
  
“By no more than I am older than your Lord Father-she is said to be a lovely maid, Jon, and should this visit go well, I believe she will be a good wife to you, a good lady of Winterfell.”  
  
It seems, judging by the look on Jon’s face, that as much as Ned has not wanted to think of her eldest as a man grown, part of him had not either. For a long time it had been just the two of them at Winterfell, and for a long time it had seemed to remain that way. But he would not be Jon without schooling his features quickly into a smile (albeit a grim one) and nodding. It is his duty, after all.  


* * *

  
It has been a week since Lady Wynafryd arrived at Winterfell, and to Ned and Kit’s pleasure, it has been a great success. Accompanied by a bevy of maids, Wynafryd has managed to not only bring a small smile to Jon’s face, but to even make him laugh. Ned thinks this promising.  
  
“She is a pretty girl,” she says over her sewing to Kit, who nods. They sit in her solar now, watching as the last of the Summer snows coat the castle around them outside.  
  
“Aye. And smart as a whip, that one. She certainly knows her courtesies, so of course Sansa adores her.”  
  
She chuckles, tying off her last stitch cleanly with care, holds the small blanket up for her husband to see. Her creation is grey, of course, with red trout and black wolves dancing along the hem.  
  
“That is the third blanket you have made for the child, my lady,” her husband observes, looking up from his book. “Is there something you wish to share about the babe? Or babes, perhaps?”  
  
Ned just shakes her head and laughs a little. “No, my love,” she replies, patting her still small belly-it has been four months now, and Ned was never this small before, not even with Arya. “I fear this shall be just the one child. I am merely...preparing for any future children you may give me.”  
  
And Kit gives her this _look_ she has long ago associated with the business of creating children, and she bites her lip in anticipation. It had been the same with Sansa and Arya, this insatiable heat within her to constantly have her husband in her bed, and it is only a knock on her door that stops her from dragging her husband to their bed.  
  
“Enter,” she calls out, and it is Maester Luwin, thankfully oblivious to what he had just interrupted while telling of another Night’s Brother found deserting.  
  
Kit shakes his head in disappointment and Ned feels her jaw clench in wonder and despair at how such a noble brotherhood should manage to produce such men, at what was beyond the Wall to cause a record fourth broken vow in the year.  
  
“Have the horses readied, Maester. Arya will remain here with Lady Wynafryd, and we will ride out immediately.”  


* * *

  
Arya, of course, is not best pleased upon hearing that she will be left behind, but at Ser Rodrik’s sharp word, quietly bows her head, ever the obedient soldier in his presence. Though she knows he would never really stop teaching her, not truly, she does not wish to give him reason to speak to her parents and have them re-consider her lessons.  
  
And so after she and Lady Wynafryd watch her parents and siblings ride off over the hills, she dutifully returns to her sewing, as ever huddled over her stitches which are quite perfect, in her opinion. She is waiting for the day when she can apply these to someone’s flesh to help heal them with an anxiety she wasn’t sure she had ever felt before. It is Sansa, she thinks, who would be nervous, but as Arya fingers the cloth in her hands, and thinks on how different it would be to human skin, and it scares her a little.  
  
When learning that Lady Wynafryd was to become her good sister from Sansa (whose word Arya doesn’t quite trust in this matter, but she is older and must be privy to things she is not), and after Wynafryd hadn’t rolled her eyes along with Sansa at her muddied skirts,  Arya had decided to confide her fears with the older girl. She’s not too bad, for a lady, she thinks.  
  
“Ah, so you wish to become a healer, Lady Arya?”  
  
And Arya wants to shake her head, to tell her no, and don’t be stupid. She wants to be able to do all her lady mother can do, but Wynafryd continues to speak.  
  
“It would be wise for you to continue your lessons with Ser Rodrik, then.” And Arya is confused.  
  
“What? Why?” She asks frowning.  
  
“Well Lady Arya,” Wynafryd says, still looking down at her needle and thread, “if you should ever find yourself on a battlefield, which I sincerely hope you never do, it would be good for you to be able to defend yourself, or if needed, to cut through a crowd of soldiers to gain access to the wounded man.”  
  
And something clicks in Arya’s mind. She may not have the manners of her sister, but she is certain she does not wish to marry herself off to a lord, nor to even leave Winterfell itself. She looks up to Wynafryd.  
  
“Would you and Jon keep me on in Winterfell if I could sew a man together, Lady Wynafryd?”  
  
Wynafryd looks up and smiles, lightly protesting her status as Jon’s betrothed, but the wheels are already quickly turning in Arya’s brain, a new plan. She would travel the lands, fighting off swords and sewing people up when they are hurt.  
  
She is about to say as much when they hear the hounds howling from the kennels, louder than she has ever heard them. Mama and papa must be approaching, but she has never heard the dogs sound so panicked before.  


* * *

  
Kit makes strong mention of a direwolf not being suited to be a pet, but Jon’s words of finding the six pups being a sign, and Sansa’s pleading blue eyes sways Ned to sternly tell her children that they will have no help in taking care of the pups while stroking the soft fur of the small black pup in her arms.  
  
They will each have one, and though Ned has little patience for pets, her only interest laying with her horse, she cannot help but see this, as Jon said, a sign. Six direwolf pups, two girls, four male-a sign of what was to come, she was sure of it. Winterfell needed a new litter of boys, brothers for Jon who as Lord of Winterfell would have their arms and they would hold his lands in return, carry on their name.  
  
Ned watched as Sansa boldly cuddled with a creature the grown men around her shied away from, looking as if the girl had found her other half, and Ned could only think this true. A lady yes, but a wolf all the more, fierce and protective.  
  
Kit keeps his objections to himself, later telling her that this is an omen, a sign from the Stranger, the recently dead mother speared through the neck so viciously, but Ned chalks it up to his Southron beliefs. This is the North, and the signs the old gods send are quite a bit different to those of the Seven.  
  
The wolves have come again.


	10. Let Me Steal This Moment From You Now / the kick inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part A (no, for real this time, I'm legit trying to keep my chapters fairly even in length, sooo...yeah)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks SO much for all the kind words, you guys are amahzing. No, really.

She is sitting in the godswood, three fast growing pups by her side-all unnamed, all trailing after her despite her protestations, and though Kit smirks at her as they willfully disobey her stern ‘Go!’, Ned is secretly delighted, the young creatures confirming her belief that she carries a young boy within her. Her husband, so patient and unknown to this world they live in, surely deserves a son to name his own.  
  
They are, thankfully, as quiet as the Starks they have yet to meet, as obedient as she wishes her children were at times, and so they sit patiently watching as she cleans Ice, listening to the waving leaves dancing to the forest floor around them. It is a peaceful scene they make, a mother, her pups, her sword and her gods. She feels lucky again, but before her gods, refocuses her thoughts on the life she recently took, the blood still on her blade.  
  
She hears him before she sees him and cannot help but smile to herself, listening as he crunches his ways through the dry leaves. He prefers not to enter the godswood much, but Ned does not think on this as he grows closer.  
  
“Husband,” she calls out. “Where are the children, my lord?”  
  
“They are in the kitchen, arguing over pups and names, my lady.” He looks to the three who sit at her feet. “Though there is not much to argue over with you holding three of them hostage.” He says lightly, and Ned feels the beginning of a smile, the beginning of her own protests that would be ruined by her amused voice.  
  
“They are waiting for your future sons, husband. We shall have to match them, pup for pup.” She retorts, her hand unconsciously rubbing her belly.  
  
He still doesn’t like the wolves, but Ned knows it is the right choice, her tearful prayers answered from her youth at last, a sign of the world to come. But Kit no longer looks as if he is thinking on the wolves, and his sombre expression quickly snaps her back to reality.  
  
“What is it, my love?”  
  
“We have had a raven from King’s Landing, Ned. It is ill news. I’m so sorry, but Jon Arryn is dead.”  
  
Ned feels her face crumble, her heart constrict, and is vaguely aware of the strong arms of her husband wrapping around her as he takes a seat next to her.  
  
“I know he was like a father to you. I’m sorry, my love.”  
  
She nods weakly in response. “Is this...for certain?” She asks, surprised to find her voice hoarse, and he squeezes her a little tighter against him in comfort as he clears his throat.  
  
“It comes with the King’s own seal, my love, written in his own hand.”  
  
“You...and your sister? Is she ok? You should take the children and be with her, she will be grateful for the company. She should not be alone, not now.”  
  
“Aye, she is well, along with her boy. He writes that they have left for the Eyrie, and that he...that he also rides for Winterfell, to seek you out.”  
  
For the second time, she feels her heart clench but a little, and smiles.  
  
“Robert is coming? Here? I confess I do not know how to react, but I can’t deny this pleases me greatly. Gods, how long has it been now? Did he say who was coming? Oh, he’ll want to hunt-oh, and me with a child, I warn you now Kit, he will not mince his words with you, he has always thought me a sister and-”  
  
“You must calm yourself, my lady,” Kit laughs, cutting across her words. “He brings the royal family, their retainers, and the Queen’s brothers.”  
  
Ned finally frowns-she has held no love for the Lannisters, not when so much blood was lost before victory was imminent, and Cersei Lannister especially held no love for her when Ned was present at her marriage to Robert. Robert had casually put it down to Ned not having dressed up for the occasion, fresh from her time in Dorne with Lord Howland, but Ned was sure his new wife’s false courtesies had not stemmed from that.  
  
“They will be riding slowly for the children’s sake,” she says, “and that should give us enough time to prepare. And if we have to have an infestation of Lannisters to see Robert, then that is the price we pay. How old is the little one? Five, maybe?”  
  
“Prince Tommen will be seven now,” her husband gently corrects, and Ned shakes her head ruefully.  
  
“How fast the years have gone by, my love. And how fast it will be until he arrives. Gods, the man was never one to give much warning, he has not changed in that. Ben should be here as well, he would want that.”  
  
“Aye, my love,” her husband nods, and for a brief, peaceful moment, they allow themselves respite from the oncoming royal flurry.

* * *

  
Just as she did with Arya, Ned’s belly seems to swell to an uncomfortable size overnight, and she is suddenly unable to comfortably descend the stairs, let alone mount her horse. Old Nan says that it is the sign of a male Stark within, that her own lady mother had been heavy with her brothers, even at just five months, whereas Stark girls wait until the sixth month to show properly, shyer in nature.  
  
Ned is sure it is only the frustrated look on her face that keeps Old Nan from questioning her about carrying Jon, and as the days go on, she grows more and more irritable. Kit has long since given up trying to tell her that it’ll be over soon (‘just under four months’ is _not_ a good reminder), while Jon wisely keeps quiet, only holding his arm out for his mother to lean on, and to comment nicely on her hair (always her hair, she fumes, the only part of her she can keep from swelling like a bloated corpse). Sansa is excited for the babe, not having been old enough to remember her mother pregnant with Arya, and Arya looks vaguely fascinated at the prospect of a new sibling inside her lady mother after conferring with Lady Wynafryd.  
  
Robert is barely a day away now, and it is Lady Wynafryd who comes upon her in the Glass Gardens, hidden away amongst the plants, laying in the soil, hiccuping through her tears. Ned spots her before she can try and retreat, and waves her over. Wynafryd carefully sits next to her, smoothing her skirts around her.  
  
“I am afraid, Lady Wynafryd, that I am not painting such a picture of the delights of motherhood for you,” Mother’s madness, she thinks, wiping a stray tear away, “but I promise with my other children it was much smoother than this.” She pauses. “Well no, I did give birth to Arya in the woods, but that was quite the extraordinary circumstance. I was at fault there, I should not have travelled-but otherwise she was quite an easy birth. And you have good hips.”  
  
She looks up to the girl she may soon call daughter as she nods.  
  
“May I ask you something, Lady Stark?”  
  
“Aye, Lady Wynafryd,” she says, wiggling her back further into the dirt beneath her.  
  
“Why are you lying in the soil? Surely your bed must be more comfortable?”  
  
And Ned blushes, for yes, all of Winterfell and its guests must know that she finds her bed, and its occupants, very comfortable indeed-she had never quite believed Kit when he teased her of making a ruckus, but it was one morning when she had heard Theon taunting Jon over her when she realised that her husband had the right of it.  
  
“A featherbed would be comfortable yes, but it is not always able to give way to the aches in my back, Lady Wynafryd. I have always found the uneven ground to be comforting to me while with child, but with this babe,” she gestures to the large swell, “I have had to resort to top soil as well.”  
  
Wynafryd nods with a quiet ‘ah’, and both women sit (and lay) in silence for a while. Ned is comfortable and for once, feels at peace. The babe is still, and she is in good company. Wynafryd, however, seems antsy, and Ned thinks on the girl’s outgoing nature with her daughters and son, how she should say something.  
  
“I am sorry your trip home with be delayed, Lady Wynafryd. Though I know that we have enjoyed your visit greatly.” There. That should put the girl at peace.  
  
“Oh, I am too, my lady. I mean-I should be sad to leave, but it is quite exciting-it is not often, or ever, really, that I have been in the presence of royalty.” She pauses for a moment. “Jon tells me you are quite good friends with the King, my lady?”  
  
“Aye, we were fostered together as children. I thought him a brother, and he thought me a younger sister. It has been a long time since I have seen him last.” She remembers sighing. “And you, Lady Wynafryd? How has my son been treating you? Properly, I do hope.”  
  
Wynafryd’s eyes widen and her neck flushes red when there is a scratching at the door, and both women turn to look at the three pups begging to enter, to be with their mother. Ned had left them just outside, determined for them not to ruin the growth in the gardens (for she was already taking up room enough laying on the soil as she is) by digging up roots not yet ready, but they are accompanied by Jon who taps gently on the glass door, Ghost by his side.  
  
Ned waves her arm to him, and he enters, informing her that he has sent Jory and an honour guard to meet their guests on the Kingsroad-they will be be arriving on the morrow, most like.  
  
“Lord Kit-Keith, I mean, has sent me to help you inside, mother,” and Jon winces at his use of the word ‘help’, but Ned has had a good hour of resting her back on the top soil, and just settles for stretching her arms to him and allowing him to take most of her weight while trying to get her to stand.  
  
It is childish, she thinks, but Wynafryd bites her lip in a smile as Jon grunts at his mother’s dead weight until Ned decides to cooperate and share the load.  
  
“What did I tell you, my darling boy,” Jon winces again at the pet name used in front of another, “the day your sister was born?”  
  
“I must be able to treat with pregnant women.” He parrots and quickly apologises as he begins to escort her back to her chambers, leaving Wynafryd along the way to see to his sisters. Ned relishes in it just being the two of them, her son grown. Had it really been that long ago when she rode into Winterfell, exhausted with a babe at her chest?  
  
“Lady Wynafryd told me she should be sad to leave Winterfell,” she begins, her attempt at being casual. Jon, however, has long since grown out of his mother’s attempts at being sly, with both Theon and Kit having taught him...their own forms of eloquence.  
  
He nods, the dutiful son.  
  
“Sansa and Arya will miss her greatly-they have grown fond of her, I believe.” And Ned furrows her brow at a particularly steep climb, wishes that closing yourself off to your own mother was not a part of growing up. Jon has grown careful with his words, and she remembers the young boy who would run to her in the godswood, a crown of ivy in his hands, to name her the _Lady_ of Love and Beauty-never the queen, though-at a young age, Jon had known his mother was not fond of the title.  
  
Jon has grown careful, and so Ned will speak as she wants.  
  
“And what of you, Jon? What say you on our dear Lady Wynafryd?” In the shadows of the hall she can see a faint blush on his cheeks, and silently rejoices. He may be grown, but she still knows her son.  
  
“I shall miss her too, mother.” He grits out, and Ned forces her smile down. It is time to slip out of being the mother and into the Lady.  
  
“Jon. Does her manner please you?”  
  
“Yes, mother.”  
  
“Good. And do you...think her pretty?”  
  
“...yes, mother.”  
  
“And do you think she may return any such affections?” they are at her chambers now, a steaming bath waiting for her in the middle of the room. Jon sits her on the edge of her bed where she will wait for her ladies to assist her in her bath. He bends down to look her in the eye, hands on her shoulders, and Ned suddenly feels like a petulant child.  
  
“Mother-I should like to take her as my lady wife if it please her.” He states, and at her gaping mouth, kisses her on the forehead gently, and walks out.

* * *

  
Due to the preparations for the arrival of the king, Kit has been largely absent from her days, and due to her obscenely distended belly, Ned has found herself sleeping away from her husband’s much too warm rooms, preferring the cool air of night to wash over her. And so it is with a well deserved gasp when she is escorted by Theon’s strong arm down to the yard, to see her lord husband looking absolutely resplendent in his Tully-Stark finery. He has also trimmed his beard and hair, having had her son and ward taken care of as well.  
  
There they stand, her family-Sansa pristine as a six year old could ever be, Jon looking gallant and lord-like as he parts with Wynafryd before stepping forward to stand beside her husband, who manages to look both handsome and harried at the sight of Arya who comes barreling into the courtyard at the last possible moment, hair ruffled and thankfully, skirts clean. He steps forward to take her arm from Theon.  
  
“Here they come,” he murmurs as she lets go of his arm, and she stands as tall and proud as she remembers her lord father doing, watching as familiar faces ride through her gates, taking her husbands arm again as she attempts to bend the knee in respect.  
  
It is a man who she barely recognises, however, who launches himself from a horse and calls out her name.  
  
“Ned! Come on up, old girl, let’s have a look at you,” he booms, and Ned tries her best not to look to the queen’s disapproving glance. She is not well-loved below the Neck, and Cersei displays that for all to see. She takes Robert’s hand, and with Kit’s arm, she and her house stand before the king who can do naught but laugh.  
  
“Look at you! You got fat, old girl,” he calls out, and winks at her, but Ned can hardly form a response, for the friend she last saw was not the man who is hugging her gently now, wary of the belly between them. And she watches as he moves down the line, says something obscene to Kit (also actually _calls_ him Kit, and not Keith, his given name, as if they were brothers long lost), comments to Jon on his height and strength, makes Sansa blush prettily and asks Arya her name.  
  
When he comes back to her, she feels she has come to terms with her old friend’s...new size.  
  
“Ah, Ned,” he roars, “It is good to see you again-you have not changed a bit.”  
  
“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.” Her friend harrumphed a bit, his large belly jiggling as the queen stepped forward, giving Ned her hand, who bows her head, lips brushing against fingers, and begs forgiveness for her clumsy curtsey, for her balance is not what it is while so pregnant.  
  
“Come-take me to the crypts, I shall pay my respect.”  
  
The queen gave her protests, but Robert already had Ned’s arm in his, giving her a look as Ned begins to lead her friend away to visit her family among the dead. It brings her back to when they were children, to hear him demand to see Lyanna’s resting place, back to when she would tell her friend of her younger sister, back to when he would share with her his thoughts and feelings on her beautiful sister, and she feels a surge of love for her old friend for not forgetting.  
  
He helps her gently down the stairs, a torch in hand, and when they have reached the bottom, alone, turns to look  her in the eyes, glancing down to her belly in silent question. She nods, smiling, as he eagerly, yet softly brings his large hands to her belly, looking almost awed at his friend being with child.  
  
“It is so still,” he whispers.  
  
“Aye, he is being quiet today, much to his mother’s comfort.” She replies, and Robert stands back upright, and begins walking them down the cold tunnels, as she gently leads the way.  
  
“A boy, is it? Your old gods make that promise, eh?” Ned shakes her head, unwilling to laugh in such a place, her dead ancestors surrounding them.  
  
“Merely a sign, Your Grace.” And as they stop before her sister and his lost betrothed, laying between her father and brother, she watches the king kneel and bow his head before her likeness. Ned has not come down here as often as she should since their deaths, she knows, but it is the punch in her chest that reminds her why she avoids it.  
  
She does not dare lend him a hand to stand-he is her king, and though he had viewed her as an equal in their youth, Ned knows they are no longer.  
  
“So dark, Ned. She shouldn’t be down here.” He manages, voice filled with remembered grief.  
  
“You were not there, Your Grace-I promised to bring her back. She belongs here.” She says, voice soft. Robert begins to lead them back, shaking his head to himself, and she follows.  
  
“Ned-,” He begins.  
  
“Your Grace?” And Robert scowls.  
  
“The Others take ‘Your Grace’-we are more to each other than words of courtesy, Ned.” She does not answer, but merely nods. He looks as if he wants to say something, but stops himself. She knows him though, and while his voice is loud, he does actually put thought behind it.

* * *

  
She had made it through the night, and she is grateful for her friend insisting that she leave his own welcome feast when he thought she looked tired, restless in her seat, physically pushing Kit towards her, and going back to his cups.  
  
Ned fairly collapses onto the bed, her legs dangling off the end and moans, watching as her husband looks down at her with affection, gently massaging her ankles after soothing her boots off of her bare legs. The babe feels like a baker’s oven on top of her, and Ned has not worn much beneath her skirts for weeks, and it is driving her slowly insane.  
  
And though she _is_ tired, she somehow manages to push herself up onto her elbows, watching Kit’s hands glide over her calve, and when he looks up at her, he looks almost surprised at her face.  
  
“My lady, tell me you did not use our unborn child as an excuse to get away from the feast,” he admonishes, but the feral grin and his fingers quickly wandering up her thighs betray him. “Tell me,” he repeats, dragging her skirts up her legs, gently pushing her legs apart, and at his sharp intake of breath, she thinks he must have discovered that she is not wearing her small clothes.  
  
But Ned just shakes her head, playful, drunk on her reunion with her dear friend, and high on how her sensitive body has been reacting to her husband’s attentions-in fact, how it had been reacting all night through the feast. He is so very becoming, she thinks, and even more so when his cheeks are flush with ale, with dancing their daughters around the room.  
  
“You wound me, my lord. I have my integrity.” She says, trying to speak to him over her bump as she attempts to trace her leg up his arm, but she-oh gods, she can barely hold herself up by her arms, how is she supposed to be able to sit upon him? She collapses back with a disgruntled sigh, and he is suddenly there next to her, concern writ on his face.  
  
“My love? Ned, are you ok?” Miserably, she shakes her head.  
  
“I can’t move,” she all but wails, and tries to turn her face from his in shame, but he has already cupped her face in his thankfully cool hands, forcing her to look to him. “I wish to be with you Kit, it has been so long,” she whines. “But how can I when all I can do is lay here like an invalid?” She reaches up, grabbing him by his doublet, and roughly pulls him down to her, “and I have been waiting. All. Day. _Long_.” She grits out, pushing him halfheartedly away again.  
  
He does not go far though, and to her eternal thanks, does not laugh, not even in his dancing blue eyes, just looks at her as his thumb strokes away the frustrated tear she has let loose down her cheek.  
  
“My love, Ned.” He starts, voice low, and places a hand on her belly. “You are carrying with you, all day and all night, my child. I could not, would not ask for a more devoted wife.” He brings her hand up and kisses it, lips soft to the touch, and Ned tries not to let her lips tremble with emotion, watching as his eyes darken.  
  
“I would take you any which way I could, Eddara,” and she feels her breath hitch at the voice, the look, the words. “and when you are no longer able to move, your body tired from mine, I would gladly take refuge between your legs, tasting that lovely cunt of yours,”  
  
It does not take much for Ned, while pregnant, to so viciously respond to her husband’s touch, but without removing his hands from her belly or her face, she feels almost near peaking already; her thighs rubbing a delicious friction together, her sensitive nipples standing upright, eager for his gentle touch.  
  
“Oh, good,” she whimpers, and as she watches her husband slide down the bed, she is quite glad of the ongoing music, the raucous singing, going on down in the Great Hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so you may be wondering 'hey, what's with all the sexy times?' WELL sometimes I feel kinda bad for Kit, so I throw him a bone. Or four. Wop wop. But seriously, even though it may seem like a pretty blase thing to do, him playing the wife and being called 'Lady Kit' (even in jest) while living in an incredibly misogynistic world must have its moments sometimes. Even when you're in love with your lady wife. And so, I give him what is like, 1% of what I imagine going on between the sheets.


	11. Let Me Steal This Moment From You Now / blood is like water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s occurred to me that I may have screwed myself over with my own timeline (that I spent a super long time on, so that’s just...unfair) just a bit, so...if you all could just continue and maybe ignore it? That’d be swell. Maybe we can all just sweep it under the ‘It’s AU’ umbrella, because I swear, I’ve got it down now, but there were moments when. Yeah. Blah.

There will be other hunts, many of them, the king had boomed, and as they ride off, Kit glances behind him for one last look at his wife and king, whose last command had been for them to find the second biggest game for them to sup upon that night. The largest game would be for him to bring down personally, for the last feast.  
  
Ned had looked at him without a care in the world, and so Kit rode off without her, feeling all the better for it. Jon was riding a little ways ahead of him, just next to the queen’s brother, the Imp, whom he had struck up a somewhat uneasy, tentative acquaintance with in the past few days. Something about tales of the Young Dragon, he had overheard once. But that was when Jon wasn’t spending his time with the Lady Wynafryd, a pleasing girl with brown hair she kept in her two braids, swinging with every step.  
  
He smirked, remembering Ned’s face when he had forced himself to break Jon’s confidence to tell her about finding the two in the Glass Gardens, alone but for Ghost standing guard outside. His step-child had certainly grown into his role as future Lord of Winterfell, but he was still a young man of sixteen, in the throes of a first love, and made stupid for it. Wynafryd had seemed as though she had witnessed the Crone come to life when Kit had rapped his fingers on the glass, face bloomed with a flush as she skirted her way around him, fleeing to the safety of her room.  
  
Jon had, of course, been torn between being his usual self, who would have immediately seen the fault in what they were doing-a very chaste throe of first love, Kit thought-and letting his emotions get the better of him, a boy newly betrothed and wanting to spend time with his bride. It had lead to their first argument in a very long time, and Kit had seen the words Jon wanted to say about his mother and step-father being kept back, lodging themselves in his throat, with only the love he had for her, the inability to say the words he thought about her own vocal proclivities out loud, holding them back.  
  
She wasn’t like other mothers, Jon had told him once, right before their wedding, a menacing look in his young eyes, a silent threat between them. _She’s not like other mothers, but she is mine_. And Kit had kept that in mind, reminding himself of it every morning-she’s not like other wives, but she is mine. It was difficult at first, conceding so much, deferring to her final word, but Ned had quickly seen what he was doing, and all but begged him to stop, wishing him to offer up his opinions no matter what they may be. For though she was a Stark, she said, the icy command coming naturally to her, she was also not meant for this position in life, and craved the need to view other options and to fight for her decision. It had been the most vulnerable he had ever seen her, close to when she had proposed and told him about Jon (Kit counts those moments as one), and Kit found he loved her more for it.  
  
(Let the blasted Kingslayer call him Lady Kit to his face, he thought, he’d jump over the Wall if she asked.)  
  
So it was with a careful control he didn’t even realise he had when the hunting party returned, and he found his wife in her solar, three pups whining softly at her feet, looking as if she had just found a nest of pigeons in her pillow (a secret, yet odd fear of hers, he had learned during what ended up being a very amusing trip to the hayloft in the stables), only to turn at the sound of his entry, blurting out that she had just been commanded to be the hand of the king.  
  
“And what did you reply?” He manages, not entirely sure why or how he wasn’t angry at the audacity of a man who Ned called a friend, to come all the way to her home, see her fit to burst with child, and ask her to take on such a role. It seems he and Ned are sharing in being dazed.  
  
“I-I-I told him I would have to think it over, to talk with you.” She gulps, looking at him, miserable. “I am so sorry my love, I should have said ‘no’ immediately, and I know we had already discussed reasons for why he might be traveling so soon after Jon’s death, but it just took me by surprise and so I...I begged leave due to child pains and came here.” Ned finished in a rush, her voice shaking a little, in shock or fear, he’s no longer sure, but his mind immediately flashes to his late mother, and quickly tries to calm her.  
  
“Ned, Ned-be calm my lady, we can talk about this, you need not answer him yet,” and suddenly they are in the bed chambers, laying quietly, his arms around her as her breath slows, calms, her own hands stroking gently through his hair in after thought, a small comfort to her.  
  
“I’m going to say no,” she announces, and Kit closes his eyes. “I belong in the North, with our children, with _you_. I shall say ‘ _no_ ’.” Ned declares, as if finished with a trivial matter of who was going to talk baby Arya into the bath.  
  
But Kit knows she cannot. As much as he wants her to, as much as he’d do it for her himself, tell that fat king he can go to all Seven Hells, Kit finds himself back in his childhood, suddenly the lost parent to both siblings, little Lysa unsure of the world, and older brother Edmure much too confident in his invincibility to be trusted without father around.  
  
“Ned, my lady. I fear you must say yes.” She stiffens in his arms, her silence cold, stony, like ice, chilling the room.  
  
“He is the king, Ned. If you were to spurn him, he would anger, and question why you-”  
  
“He is my best friend,” she cuts in, “I know the man. He would yell, he would rant, maybe break something, but then he would find something else to focus on, and he will forget, and forgive.”  
  
Kit doesn’t want to, but he sighs despite himself.  
  
“Ned, he is no longer the man you grew up with-how can you not see that? He is the king, and though we may question his choices, we must obey them as well.”  
  
Oh. Those were not his choicest words, he realises, watching as Ned pushes him away and swats his arms off of her when she tries to stand from the bed, stepping to the window and looking out into the cold night sky. It has not often been a bone of contention between them, but Ned’s insecurities make their appearance known a few times a year, and Kit has found he can do naught but to listen.  
  
So he watches, guilt gnawing deep in his belly, waiting for her to speak. She is striking in her profile, he thinks, her strong, broken nose resting over her soft lips that were a constant pink, the way she habitually worried them with her teeth. Her long black hair that normally rests in one long braid, clean and out of her way, was currently fighting its way out of the Riverlander Knot he had pulled it into that morning, his wife’s attempt at appealing to the queen she had unwittingly made an enemy of in her youth. Kit can see why, could see it when he first met her-looking like a wild, unknown, untamed beauty of the North, that spark in her eyes when he thought her just a lady of the castle, that kind smile as she was embraced by her old friend, and oh, when he first made her truly laugh, Kit remembers how infatuated he had become, her hearty, deep laugh tickling down his spine.  
  
The beautiful queen had, no doubt, sat patiently through the king’s casual whoring, had known about his previous betrothed, but had obviously not known her new husband’s best friend was, in fact, a woman whom he had shared much of everything with in his young life. Ned refused to hear anything of the queen’s jealousy, certain she had done something else to the young woman, but Kit, and he was sure, everyone who had the gift of sight, could see the queen’s emerald eyes narrow in suspicion.  
  
“I will not say yes,” Ned is saying, voice soft, “not to this. It is too much, and I have no wish to bring our family into that viper’s nest that is court.” She turns to look at him, and though used to it, it hurts his heart a little to see Lady Stark emerge so strongly when they talk of familial matters. And so he nods and bites his tongue for another day, anot-  
  
“But I will do what I have to-for our family, and if that means a seat on the Small Council, then perhaps I won’t be the most reviled woman in Westeros.”  
  
And with that, he knows the discussion is over.

* * *

  
Ned’s rejection and proposal to her friend does not go over well however, and the whole of Winterfell seems to shake with the ferocity of his voice, his temper.  
  
“Friend or no, Ned, I am your _king_ , and you do not speak to me as if we were both still in short pants. I have made a command, and I will not be refused.”  
  
And though Ned has seen the anger, the rage of Robert Baratheon before, had felt his disappointment in her when she rode into King’s Landing with a babe in arms and no living sister, had thought she would go partially deaf in one ear the first time she took a needle and thread to his wounds, but Ned has quickly realised that she has never been present for his _fury_.  
  
“Robert, I-” she forgets herself a moment, feels lucky that he merely cocks a bushy brow at her, a fiery look in his heavy glare, and so she quickly, quietly changes tact. “Your Grace, I will never be accepted as Hand-the people will revile me, and they will think their king a fool, entrusting such an honoured position to a woman. The North take me because I am a Stark, because the respect they hold for my House they generously passed onto myself, but that means nothing to Southron folk, and-”  
  
“Hells have them,” he interrupts, and Ned tries to think of a way to steel herself against his glare while still being respectful. She is coming up short. “You _will_ be Hand, Eddara Stark, and you will ride down into the South with me, and advise me and my Small fucking Council whenever I ask it.”  
  
They are both silent for a while, both breathing heavily with the weight of their long standing friendship ending with a curt, angry nod from Ned, who, now that she has taken the position, decides she may as well start using it to her advantage.  
  
“I will not leave Winterfell until this child is born, Your Grace. It is a Stark, and a Stark will always be born in Winterfell if I can help it.” Robert nods, agreeing, but Ned is not finished. “And then, I will come down to that cesspit you call court with my daughters while my lord husband and son and babe stay here.”  
  
“Aye, good thinking, old girl.” and Ned flinches at the childish name given to her when she was young, when Robert had decided this new foster sister was far too serious, far too old for her years. “Your daughter, Ned-my Joffrey hasn’t been betrothed yet, and the Martells-”  
  
“The Martells will be even more in your favour if their new daughter and wife is the daughter of the Hand, your grace. It will be an oppourtunity to keep their allegiance, especially with Sansa in King’s Landing.” She cuts across him smoothly, coldly, ignoring the indignant child within her, shouting that she would never give up her child’s wishes for a man who would force her so.  
  
Robert, however, sees the logic in her words, and as if they were talking casually, suggests Jon for his daughter Myrcella.  
  
“House Manderly has already accepted our betrothal, and Jon will need them on his side when he becomes Lord and Warden.” Robert grumbles, furrows his brow at this second rejection that Ned feels a proper Hand would do. But then his face brightens, and it clicks-he has remembered _Arya_.  
  
No, not Arya.  
  
“I-your grace, Lady Arya is far too young, and-”  
  
“Aye, not for Joffrey, but for the little one-Tommen. They are close in age, are they not?”  
  
And Ned knows not to feel a sting when he asks that, for she already knows he pays more attention to her own children than he does his own who aren’t his eldest. Reluctantly, she nods. They are only two years apart, and Arya will possibly kill her for this.  
  
“Then Stark and Baratheon will be joined at last! A good omen, my girl, for things to come. Now, how much longer with that one?” He asks, gesturing to her belly with the cup he is now quickly emptying.  
  
“Three months, we believe.” She replies, absently slipping into Ned and out of Lady Stark, and Robert looks at her, and for once in this whole exchange, looks remorseful. He takes her hand in his, squeezing gently. He is still strong, she thinks, just...fat.  
  
“Ah, Ned,” he says, shaking his head, “I am sorry to ask this of you, I am.” And Ned sees a glimpse of Robert again, not the king, but the Robert who would never apologise unless he meant it, but Ned’s not sure even that will save him in her eyes. “But I need good men with me, I need you. You’ll talk to me straight, you know me Ned. I can trust you, and I need you by my side.”  
  
She looks down to the hand engulfing hers, his thumb lazily tracing one of the faint scars on her fingers, from so long ago when they were children, and despite herself, Ned finds a slow forgiveness blooming within her. This is Robert. Her best friend, her first friend. They shared everything, and though she now has a family of her own, a family she wishes to keep to herself, up North, Robert is still her family as well. She may not like him, but she surely loved him despite his steep, bitter decline into the king he has become.

* * *

  
She is angry, and though mama tells her it is a great honour, and papa says that a betrothal to the prince might be good for her, that it will allow her many oppourtunities to travel the lands like she’s always wanted, she feels as though they are liars, the both of them. It’s not an honour, and she won’t be able to travel anywhere with that fat little prince tagging along, all slow and not even liking beets-who didn’t like beets? She was _five_ and she liked beets, the sweet and tangy red flavour staining her tongue and lips purple was one of her favourites, right next to roast capon and leverpostej.  
  
Lemon cakes, however, remained a fast favourite, something she shared with her sister, something they would both sneak into the kitchens for, Sansa creating a polite diversion while Arya scampered around underfoot, grabbing what she could, and making her getaway, her blushing sister (she was so terrible at lying) stammering and quietly making her exit with a polite curtsey and dashing off after her.  
  
But Tommen was a fat and stupid little boy, and Arya had no time for him, wanting to go on adventures throughout the lands, and sewing up people’s wounds, Nymeria by her side, and sword at her hip (she hoped one day to get a blade of her own, but Mikken must also be in on the conspiracy against her, for he has not wavered once at her desperate pleas).  
  
Princes are meant for girls like Sansa, who _want_ to have children and be married and be like mama. But Sansa already had her prince, Prince Trystane Martell, all the way down in Dorne, and so Arya was stuck with a stupid, fat Prince Tommen.  
  
She is sat high on a wall when Sansa climbs up next to her, careful of her skirts, Lady joining Nymeria at their feet.  
  
“He isn’t a terrible boy, Arya,” Sansa begins, but Arya’s glare cuts her off, and so her older sister sighs instead. They sit, silent, and watch Jon and Lady Wynafryd take a turn around the grounds, walking towards the Glass Gardens. Wynafryd seems to like the gardens a lot, Arya muses, thinking on all the times she has seen them walking in and out of it.  
  
“At least he will not be king,” Sansa finally says, and Arya frowns. What?  
  
“Well, if he is not to be king, then you and he will be able to visit me in Sunspear, or Jon, up here in Winterfell.” Arya thinks on this strange logic her sister has found, trying to make sense of it. Her sister continues.  
  
“If he were king, you’d have to bring everyone else along, and that’s an awful lot of trouble to go through for just a visit to your brother or sister.” Sansa says, and though Arya has never found her to be actually stupid (just the things she liked, or liked to talk about, really), she finds herself nodding along anyway, silently encouraging her sister to continue.  
  
“And being a princess, you will be allowed to do more what you like to do-”  
  
“Like sewing up men?” She asks, eager, and Sansa grimaces.  
  
“Yes, I suppose. Like sewing up men.” Her sister answers, and they fall into a silence again.  
  
She’s still angry, but the sting, the betrayal has been lessened, somewhat. The sisters watch as the little prince in question walks out of the stables, one of the new kittens bundled in his arms, carefully stroking it and smiling brightly at it.  
  
Sansa gives her a grin, and Arya can’t help but giggle. Just a little, though.

* * *

  
For near a month Ned had begged him to let her sleep alone in her rooms, guilt consuming her at having caved, at not being able to stand her ground with the man she had thought her best friend, irrevocably changing their family forever. And so Kit let her be, sleeping in his much warmer rooms, while she tried to absolve herself by sleeping alone, cool in her rooms.  
  
So it was a great surprise and shock when Ned woke to her door creaking open, a heavily hooded figure creeping in and closing it behind them. It is when his hood falls and the moonlight catches on his hair that she loosens her grip on the blade from her side table, and gently calls the formerly sleeping pups, now snarling at the intruder, away from her husband.  
  
“What on earth are you wearing, husband?” She asks, and Ned can’t help but giggle a little, for he looks as if he is wearing all of his Winter breeches at once, his thickest knit jumpers, and from what she could see in the dark, possibly three woolen cloaks, and over top of all of that was his riding cloak, his warmest cloak of all, designed for the heavy Northern winds. She gasps as she spots his hands. “Are those _gloves_?”  
  
He just twists his lips into a wry smile, and settles himself next to her on the bed.  
  
“I could not sleep one more night away from my wife, my lady, and if preparing to sleep in the snow is what it takes to do so, then so be it.”  
  
“There are blankets and furs in here, my lord,” she says, smile wide, “us Starks may do well in the cold, but we have not all succumbed to madness to sleep in the snow...” and Kit shrugs, gently tucking her into his arms, pulling his thick riding cloak over their legs, gloved hand resting on her hip.  
  
“Well try as I might, I am still just a Southron lad, lured into the cold by a beautiful Northern lass,” he drawls, his lips in the crook of her neck, and Ned snorts in quiet laughter.  
  
“‘Lured’?” She repeats, disbelief in her voice, and he just raises his head to look at her, a funny smile on his face.  
  
“What was a young boy to do, spurn the affections of the older, wiser Lady of the North? Why, she would have had my head!” He says, a lilt to his voice, his eyes fairly shining in the moonlight as his voice turns to scandalous whisper, “I have seen her cut down many a man, with mine own eyes!”  
  
Ned grins, and brings her hand up to his cheek, feels him lean into her touch.  
  
“Aye,” she says lightly, “I took advantage of a Southron lad, and stole him away from his warm Riverland home to keep me warm.”  
  
It is later, after she is spent, her legs writhing against his under his riding cloak, against his dancing fingers, that Ned finally feels at peace before sleep, thoughts of her duty, her future far away from her husband’s arms that wrap around her.

* * *

  
It is when she wakes, the crippling labour pains a faint memory as she looks upon her first born son in her husbands arms that she realises, remembers how they had intended on naming a son of theirs Robb. And here he is, at long last, after two daughters, the son she prayed to give her husband, and gods by good, the two of them already look so alike. She watches them, sitting by her bedside, wrapped up in their own little world, and it is with a hitch of breath that she remembers how she will have to leave them behind so soon, Kit staying in Winterfell to oversee Jon’s wedding and the child too young for travel, and oh, how it tears at her.  
  
“My love,” her husband says, unable to keep from beaming at the bundle in his arms that he passes to her to sup upon his mother’s breast. And Ned feels the connection, this beautiful boy and her, watches out of the corner of her eye as one of the stray direwolf pups leaps up onto the bed to nuzzle the tuft of red on his head, claiming the boy as his own.  
  
Luwin had advised her to remain in Winterfell for another fortnight, at least, to recover enough for the road, already having been haggled down from a month’s bed rest by Robert himself, the king and queen impatient to leave before Winter was truly upon them.  
  
(Ned had almost laughed at this, for what was coming was not Winter, not yet, but merely a step into Fall, a gentle reminder from the harsh North, and nothing else.)  
  
And so it is with hard eyes, her heart steeled against her soul, that she and her daughters hug their family goodbye. Kit is to stay with the baby for a year, maybe two, and Jon will of course remain in the North, watching over her lands while she is in King’s Landing.  
  
Sansa is pleased to be leaving, ready for the South, though reluctant to miss out on this new baby brother she hardly knows. Arya is disappointed, and hugs her older brother tightly as he whispers into her ear, and she grins at him in response, rolling her eyes as he lightly musses her hair.  
  
Kit and she had said their goodbyes the night prior, frantic, possessive, desperate in their bed, and Ned had to force him to repeat that the years will fly by, that their son will know all about his mother when they finally travel South to join her, and Ned had whimpered in his arms that she was scared to leave, to be alone again.  
  
But she isn’t alone, not truly. Sansa, Arya, and four pups accompany her South, along with Vayon, Jory, her ladies. She won’t be able to bring the entirety of Winterfell with her, but a sizable amount soothes her a little.  
  
Robb is inside with Sofia, his wet nurse, along with the fast growing direwolf pup that sat by him, as they say their goodbyes, Ned not sure she could look upon her son in another woman’s arms, her son that looks so like his father already, a tuft of red on the top of his head, his gurgling smile already so similar to Kit’s.  
  
She does not cry, though, when she folds herself into the tight embrace of her husband, his own sad small smile on her lips as he gives her one last kiss before she is to leave.  
  
It is when she meets Jon’s eyes, so like her sisters, so grown up and again, shooting up in height to tower above her now, her seventeen year old child, a man grown, betrothed, and already looking more the part of Lord of Winterfell than she ever did. It is his tight smile, his quiet sniffle that almost does her in, and somehow they both know it is unlikely they will see one another again.  
  
She shudders against him, breathing him in, patting down his dark hair, unruly even now, his face clean shaven and looking younger than he is. As she pulls away, she is unnecessary in her movements, straightening his cloak around his collar, desperate to be able to wrap herself around him again, her little surprise of a child who would soon watch his mother, who was to be a Hand that wouldn’t be like other Hands, ride off into the distance.  
  
The majority of the royal party are still, watching as her family says their goodbyes in the courtyard and so Ned squeezes her eyes shut, a desperate attempt not to let the tears fall.  
  
“We will climb mountains, my darling boy,” she sniffs, and Jon’s own eyes mist a little, smiling at the memories of his and his mama’s proposed adventures from his youth, of how they would travel beyond the Wall, into the Reach, and across the Narrow Sea.  
  
“And sleep through the red sunshine,” he returns, finishing the words of the tale they would never embark on, and Ned nods, looking down to her feet, his words squeezing her heart tight in its grip, and it is only the memory of her lord father that keeps her from fleeing, from locking herself in her rooms, her family all around her.  
  
Deep breath, Ned. Deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leverpostej* = the liver is formed into a paste to which herbs, salt, pepper and other desired seasoning are added. It is then put into a loaf pan and baked in an oven.
> 
> *though it is not the Northern most country in the world, to me Denmark tends to blend in with that culture of cold faces, flat lands, and especially the foods that are created to last, created to utilise as much of the animal as possible, so as not to waste anything. (Also, Inger, Gudde (Gudrun) and Merete are possibly the most Dane-tastic female names that I felt could fit into Westeros. Wooo, exploiting my heritage!)


	12. Why You Runnin'?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at King's Landing progresses with a little word from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, long time coming. This was...it got deleted a lot, basically. Not by accident and then oh no, I have to write it again waaahh but on purpose because nothing seemed to work or fit. But you know, now that I've got school starting up again (tomorrow!), apparently that got the juices flowing. A little.

Mother is angry again.  
  
Nay, Sansa thinks, looking again up from her meal, thoughtlessly tuning Jeyne’s voice out, mother is...no longer Mother, no longer Lady Stark, but Lady Hand now. It had taken a while for Sansa to recognise this new facet to her mother, unlike so many other mothers, but it is the grim line of her lips, the furrowed brow, the steely eyes that look so cold as to freeze anyone they gaze upon.  
  
“She has been arguing again,” her little sister, just six now, murmurs next to her, and Sansa startles a little at her unexpected sister, come from nowhere and yet oddly perceptive in this moment. It had started on the Kingsroad, she thinks, this unusual wisdom Arya seems to have picked up on, always watching others, hiding amongst the shadows, her small self largely unnoticed until her small legs tripped up on something, or when her anger got the best of her, loudly exposing herself, her secrets.  
  
But as Sansa looks to the Lady Hand, silent in her seat, surrounded by her men of Winterfell, she sees what her sister sees, sees the clenched jaw, the tight breath, the rigid shoulders.  
  
Though often annoying, Sansa had to agree with her sister, takes her small hand in hers, hidden beneath the table, and squeezes gently. They are not immune from hearing talk of their mother, the Lady Hand, and it scares them sometimes, these long periods when she sits with them, but is not present, not really. Sansa has Jeyne, the older girl treating with her as she thinks dear sisters should, but she’s not really sure what Arya gets up to, knows from Septa Mordane’s frustrations that her little sister most certainly isn’t acting like a princess-to-be should.  
  
But she also knows that despite Jeyne Poole being a much more pleasurable companion, and certainly much less tiresome than Arya can choose to be at times, that they _are_ still sisters, remembering the few stories she was able to coax from her mother of her aunt Lyanna, thinks on the sadness from her mother’s words, the fondness that had been there despite their differences.  
  
It had been Old Nan, in fact, who had, in a state of thinking Sansa was someone else entirely, told her the story of when the young Lady Eddara had been sent off to be fostered; how fierce Lyanna and Eddara had fought the night before, and how fast the ravens flew between the North and the East, the sisters desperately missing each other so, and how when they were reunited at long last, it had been three days of peace before Lyanna had declared herself “bored of her quiet sister”, and went off running with Brandon. Only to return that night to find that her pillow had been mysteriously filled with mounds of dirt.  
  
Sansa had been shocked at that, demanded that Old Nan place the blame on anyone but her mother, but the story teller had just shrugged and said it was a mystery left unsolved. It had to be Uncle Benjen, she thought, and at one point, actually prayed for his blame in this, devout in saving her good mother from such childish antics. She was a _Lady_. It simply could not have been her mother, and yet when she finally summoned up the courage to ask whilst on a small outing with her mother along the Kingsroad, she had been met with a small smile.  
  
“Not all pups within the same pack get along, duckling,” she was told. “And though I will not confirm any suspicions cast upon my character, to be sisters is something truly special. Arya will be your closest friend, and you hers, no matter how much you vex one another.”  
  
“But I- _I_ don’t vex _her_ , mother!” Sansa had protested, indignant.  
  
“Sansa-neither you nor Arya will understand the bond between you until it is tested. Some sisters are as close as best friends, others refuse to speak to one another-but you, my girl, both of you, are Starks.”  
  
“We are wolves.” Sansa had parroted, pleased at her mother’s approving nod.  
  
“Aye, you are wolves. You need her as she needs you, and what are our words?”  
  
“Winter is coming.”  
  
They rode on in silence for a pause, the wind whipping past them, and for once Sansa had been glad she had adopted her mother’s braid on this particular outing, a respite from the Kingsroad and the king (and even Arya herself) as Lady Stark gently guided her daughter on her new bay filly, working her post-pregnant body back into the saddle herself.  
  
“Where we are going Sansa, there would be people who will wish us ill,” her mother says, voice low and serious, and Sansa tries her best to be brave in the face of it as she listens. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. She is your pack. She is your sister.”  
  
And Sansa feels suddenly years younger, feels chastened and filled with regret at ever having felt anything but love for her younger sister.  
  
“Yes, mother.” She says, looking down to the pommel of her saddle, the new leather still bright and gleaming, stretched cleanly over the frame beneath her.  
  
“Sansa,” her mother sighs, her face gentle and kind. “You and Arya are sisters-it is a bond that will never break, and you will know her longer than you will know myself or your father. She will know you when you are young, and she will know you when you are grown, as no one else will, not even your future prince.” Sansa thinks she looks remarkably sad, this mother of hers, so unlike other mothers.  


* * *

  
She is holding her good brother when they hear the news of the grand tourney to be held in her good mother’s name, and though she has never considered herself terribly silly, Wynafryd finds herself a little surprised at how much she does not desperately want to be there, to watch a grand procession of knights and their flags, fluttering in a windy rainbow. No, she thinks, looking down at the beautiful little boy, _Robb_ , in her arms, thinks on her soon to be new home, there is nowhere else she would rather be in all of Westeros.  
  
Except, she thinks, maybe in her betrothed’s embrace, or perhaps even in his bed and-  
  
“Ah, Wynafryd-I thought to find you here.” Lord Keith, _Kit_ , she reminds herself, enters the room, and Wynafryd attempts to keep her cheeks from flushing too pink. Her future good father has already found her and Jon, not just once, in an embarrassing situation, and though she does not feel ashamed of her passion, not really (especially with Jon acting such a maid), it would make her life much easier if she could go through a day without thinking on his step-father’s knowing look, his deliberate cough, and even the time she found a guard stood outside her door one night, suddenly finding herself reduced to stammering and coughing and going on about maybe going to get some sweet meats, but then maybe she shouldn’t, the wedding coming up and all, the guard’s face impassive as she finally slammed the door behind her, heart beating wildly.  
  
She is standing by the roaring fire this afternoon however, so Wynafryd thinks the heat can excuse her pink cheeks. Robb gurgles for his father, and Wynafryd adjusts him into his father’s arms, who beams down at his son, before passing him off to Sofia, who sits in the corner of the room, sewing quietly.  
  
“Jon had wanted to see you at the council-your presence was missed, my lady.” He says as they sit, and Wynafryd finally feels a proper flush of embarrassment on her face, a grimace on her lips.  
  
She has made her thoughts clear to all involved, resolutely sticking close to Kit’s side while he oversaw the running of the Stark household, readying herself to take the reins, so to speak, and though she and the rest of the North holds a great respect and loyalty to Lady Eddara, that does not mean Wynafryd wants to be like her herself.  
  
“My lord,” she starts, and Kit holds his hand up, putting a conversation they have already had on pause, one of the few bones of contention between her and Jon, who so desperately wants her to rule the North by his side, together.  
  
“My lady,” he says, voice gentle, and for a brief moment they listen to Sofia cooing softly over Robb. “I understand your reservations, and I know you have already spoken to Jon of this after your first time with the council, but if you would hear me out just this one time, I shan’t speak of it again.”  
  
And she sighs a little at that-words are wind, but she has also grown to know the man her betrothed named his father, and thinks him a man of his word. He did, after all, leave behind his own Keep to his castellan to come North, to take care of a household and children while his wife rode around like a man would. It shows good character, she thinks, that a man would do so much for love, and still manage to retain his dignity amongst his lady’s bannermen, to be able to hold his own, a Southron up here in the North.  
  
“I am afraid I have already talked to Jon about it, my lord,” she says, vividly remembering the saddened, disappointed face of the boy she found herself quite in love with, “and I won’t be changing my mind on the topic. My place, even with choice, is to run my lord husband’s household and care for his children-there is nothing else I would rather do.”  
  
And truly, there isn’t. Maybe if she had been made another match, Wynafryd would be clawing at the walls for more to do, to wield some control over a husband she did not want, to gain some control over her own life, but Wynafryd finds herself content in Winterfell, ready to live a life of being a mother and lady wife.  
  
And despite there being no direct blood relation between her future husband and future good father, Wynafryd finds herself holding back a wince at the same, saddened, disappointed face looking at her.  
  
“My lady, for the past few months, you have been by my side, learning the household of Winterfell, and have done a remarkable job of it.” He begins, and lightly twists his mouth, eyes hesitating almost. “I commend you greatly for how much enthusiasm you have for your role as the future Lady Stark, so please do not take my words wrong-but if there is anything I have learned from my time in the North, it is that love...” he trails off, looking to the air around them for those words he cannot seem to find.  
  
“Love makes fools of us all?” She puts in, and Kit chuckles a little, shakes his head.  
  
“Nay, Wynafryd-I was to say was that love has a way of making us do the things we least expect for the ones we share our heart with. Jon has grown up learning of Winterfell and the North with his mother by his side, the first woman he has...he has ever loved, and he wishes to share that with you.”  
  
“My lord, it is not that I do not think the Lady Eddara a good Warden of the North, or that she should have set herself aside for another,” she quickly says, “but is something I have no desire for myself.”  
  
“Aye, my lady-and despite myself having grown up thinking to be the lord of my own lands, holding my own corner of the Riverlands for my brother, I also do not think Lady Eddara should have set herself aside for me, even if it was what many expected her to do.” He leans forward, gently rests his hand on hers. “It is also what many expect Jon to do, when the time comes for him to rule-to set you aside, but it is not something he thinks he should, not something he truly wants, not for you.”  
  
“I...” And Wynafryd truly feels at a loss for words-she has never heard Lord Kit speak of his life previous with such candor before, nor had she really put too much thought into it, apart from when news had first spread that their Lady Warden was to wed a Southron man.  
  
“But,” he continues, “if it is something you truly do not desire, I know Jon will not ask it of you anymore. He merely, I believe, wishes to extend you the same courtesy his lady mother extended me when I first arrived at Winterfell. The boy has a strong love for his mother, and she is not a mother or wife or lady like many others are.” he says, a wry smile on his lips, “Not that, of course, he would wish you to change your own ways-it is merely how he has grown, my lady.”  
  
It is later, after an overly chaste kiss on the cheek from Jon, and a brief nod to the guard at her door, that Wynafryd sits up in her bed, hugging her knees, and truly thinks on his words.  
  
Jon Stark won’t be a lord husband like many others, she thinks. Despite already knowing this, already having decided she liked his lips and hair and grace towards her, it is truly sinking in now who she is about to wed in the next half year. She already knows him to be kind, and quiet, with a laugh that rings in her ears, an earnest charm that leaves her feeling like a song, but what she is fully comprehending now is that he was also raised for many a year by the Lady of the North. He has seen her cut men down, has watched her tuck him into bed at night, has sat by her side while she gave out commands in the name of the king.  
  
It is something she has known all along, but had never truly thought on in depth, and despite it scaring her a little, this new role of hers in life no longer being as clear cut as she wants it to be, she finds herself excited as well.  
  
And so it happens that she finds herself sitting next to Maester Luwin at the next council, Jon’s happy eyes beaming at her for a moment before speaking to the matter at hand. Wynafryd finds she isn’t quite bothered by what they talk of, and though she knows she shouldn’t tune them out entirely, finds herself silently agreeing with Lord Kit.  
  
Love truly does have a way of making you do the things you least expect.  
  
So she sits, listens, answers when asked her opinion, and makes a mental note to bring her sewing the next time. Council meetings, she has found, can be dreadfully boring.  
  
But it is the look on her betrothed’s face, the pride that just seems to spill out of his quiet eyes when he first sees her enter the room that keeps her there, much as those same eyes have kept her in Winterfell.  


* * *

  
She isn’t at all like Aunt Lyanna, she truly isn’t. She wasn’t beautiful, not like her sister, she wasn’t a lady, and Arya Stark wasn’t about to ever run off with a light-haired prince, not for all the gold in the world. From the little her mother has spoke of her sister, Arya has already decided that the infamous Lady Lyanna would never have been taken against her will-Sansa was a lady as well, ready with a simper and a sweet smile, but even _she_ would never let someone take her against her wishes.  
  
And maybe Aunt Lyanna never grew to learn a sword like her mother did, but neither would Sansa. So even though mother had been unable to do anything to protect her sister, Arya chases cats, balances on one foot, and wanders the Tower of the Hand blind folded with a fury so that she can.  
  
Prince Tommen sometimes finds her, follows her as she tries to shake him off as she bounds after the fierce felines, for he really is quite useless, stomping around behind her, giving away her position by trying to whisper loudly and cooing over the kitten in his own arms. Arya finds herself just rolling her eyes in annoyance, does her best to forget her Needle in her rooms, to remember her sister’s words (‘one does _not_ kill one’s betrothed, Arya.’), and at her mother’s urging, and her brother’s letters, makes an attempt to befriend the boy.  
  
“He idolises you, my lady,” Jory had said with little explanation. “You get to chase the cats while he is given them.” And Arya feels as if he is talking in riddles, but one night, resting her sore limbs after a particularly trying day with Syrio and the resulting argument with Sansa later at supper (always about her manners, of course), she startles herself into realising that she is meant to _live_ with the useless boy she is to call husband one day.  
  
It startles her so much she finds herself quickly sneaking into her sister’s room, who looks to be fast asleep by now.  
  
“Sansa,” she whispers, voice urgent, but Sansa just mumbles a reply, eyes closed, snoring softly. For a brief moment Arya takes in the glorious sight of her sister laying in the moonlight, a trail of drool creeping its way down the corner of her mouth.  
  
“ _Sansa_ ,” she whispers again, shaking her sister into waking.  
  
“Why-what-Arya? What are you doing?” As she sits up, Arya climbs onto the bed, watching her sister’s delicate hand hastily wipe her mouth, looking disoriented and confused. “What are you doing here, Arya? It’s late.” She hisses, and Arya bites her lip.  
  
“I-I’m to live with Tommen, aren’t I? What do I do? He’s _useless_ , Sansa.”  
  
And Sansa just stares at her, knuckling the remaining sleep out of her eyes, shaking her head as she puts together the fast words of her little sister.  
  
“Arya...” she begins, and oh, how Arya is glad she cannot see the look on her sister’s face, for she would truly hate it, she thinks. All kindly and a little exasperated. She should have gone to mother, she thinks, who would not make her words pretty for her daughter. “Yes. When you one day marry the prince, you and he will _live_ together. Are you just realising this now?”  
  
Arya doesn’t care for Sansa’s light tone, and bites back that she’s only been betrothed for just shy a year now, during which she spent much of her time avoiding her husband to be, instead scowls at the news spoken aloud. Sansa sighs in the silence that surrounds them.  
  
“Was that all? I’d really like to get back to sleep, sister.” She says, already leaning back to her pillows, and Arya feels a stab of panic run through her.  
  
“No, I-” she begins, and bites her lip, sitting on her heels, and Sansa raises a tired brow at her.  
  
“What, Arya?”  
  
“When your prince comes for the tourney, and you go back with him to Dorne, what will you do?”  
  
And that surprises Sansa, surprises Arya, even. The news of her sister’s imminent departure was still fresh with them, announced by their mother Hand only a few days prior, a grim, angry line crossing her quiet face. A small retinue from Dorne, including the prince himself, were to arrive at King’s Landing in time for the tourney, and after the festivities over and honours given to the king, Sansa was to leave with them.  
  
It is early, their mother Hand said, but it will give Sansa good time to learn her new home, her new husband, until they are to be wed once she passes her sixteenth nameday. It will not be the last time they see each other, their mother says, for they will of course visit her, and she them, and she would not allow even the king himself to stop her from attending her daughter’s wedding.  
  
“I...I suppose I shall learn the Dornish customs that Septa Mordane has not yet been able to teach me.” She says quietly, sounding almost unsure. Arya thinks it unfair, feeling both jealous of her sister getting to leave and surprisingly sad that she won’t have her around anymore at the same time.  
  
“And the prince? How will you...” Arya trails off, not quite sure what she wants to really ask. How will she what? Talk to him? Play with him? Ignore him until their wedding day? Dorne is very warm, she wants to tell her sister, so the castle should be well spread out, with many places available for her sister to hide in should she wish it.  
  
“The prince? I should get to know him, I suppose. I am to be his princess, after all.” Sansa replies, sounding as if this the most obvious answer.  
  
“How will you do that? He could be useless, Sansa.” And oh, Sansa just giggles a little, shaking her head. Has Sansa already thought of this? Maybe in his letters he has already revealed himself to be useless and Sansa has already figured out a way to trick him, to-  
  
“Arya,” Sansa says, voice amused, “are you asking me how to talk to your prince?”  
  
She scowls in reply, and looks away.  
  
“My wildling sister, asking me how to steal her husband!” she crows, and Arya feels her jaw clench, desperately forgetting Needle buried in her trunk still, so easy to unveil and wave about should she wish-Syrio has taught her well enough, she thinks, and Jon’s parting advice had been true.  
  
Sansa has her hand over her mouth now, a feeble attempt to keep her giggles at bay, to keep them quiet, and Arya soon finds herself bored, rather than angry at this reaction. She shall have to work with her Needle and needles extra, she thinks, for if she is to marry a useless boy _and_ have a useless sister, she will have a lot of work to do.  


* * *

  
Though she is able to avoid the first day of the tourney, citing much business to conduct on behalf of the king for the realm, Ned realises her mistake when Sansa returns that night, flushed and glowing at the attentions and company of her Prince Trystane, and positively giddy from the day’s events, spent watching the great knights ride against one another, heroics and tragedies filling her excited words as she begs her mother to join her the next day for the final jousts.  
  
“The king had decided it too dark for them to ride,” she is saying, and so Ned finds out about the feast after, with Robert loudly proclaiming that he will fight in the melee whether the queen wished it or not.  
  
Ned really should be spending as much time with her daughter as possible, she knows, thinking on the sad letters from Kit, the dismay and initial anger he had expressed with his words that he will have to wait even longer to see her again, while Ned had coldly replied in turn that it was she who had to leave her new born son behind, and she who had to give the final command on sending her own daughter away, and did he truly think that easy?  
  
She has not been at her best, she knows, after leaving Winterfell, her sons, her husband, behind. Mother’s Madness, she had realised one morning after having spent a night crying herself quietly to sleep, her tender breasts sore and her rounded belly achingly empty. It had not been her idea to end up supporting Sansa’s leaving, but after having suffered another barbed remark about how well suited the Lady Sansa would be to the cherished blonde crown prince, of how impossible, how _improbable_ it must be for the Hand to have given birth to any child due to her serious, grim face, Ned had found herself remembering her friend’s advice all those years ago.  
  
 _Think like a man, Ned._  
  
A man would speak out, she thinks, a lady would quietly walk on, head high, and hope for someone to rise to her defense. A knight from one of Sansa’s favourite songs, perhaps.  
  
But Ned thinks on the few women in power she knows, even the queen herself, and comes to the conclusion that this is not the done thing. Maege Mormont would laugh, she imagines, maybe even show off her scars, display her crooked smile a little and stare at you until you realised she had a dagger at your neck without realising it. Queen Cersei, she decides, would most likely do the very same-just without getting her hands dirty.  
  
And so Ned was glad in some part, to send Sansa away-one less Stark for the court to feed on, to gossip about, to harm. She would like Sunspear, and Sansa has already become quite taken by the older boy she is to marry, already declaring him brave and honourable and gushing over his straight black hair, his skin that was so much darker than her pale, lightly freckled own, already wondering how their future children will look, who they will take after.  
  
She feels a craven, but when she is most honest with herself, Ned knows that not having to worry constantly about her daughter, soon to be safe in the South, will be a blessing within the poison she felt when she had agreed to the council’s proposition. Indeed, it will keep the Martell allegiance to the crown on steady feet, and will also allow ample time for the two betrothed to learn one another, but Ned knows a little about the Martells, and knows that once Sansa has charmed her way into their lives, she will become untouchable, safe.  
  
“Robert, you...you cannot fight today. What man would dare strike their king?” She says, trying to speak some sense into the man. Ser Barristan is with her, luckily, and his calm voice helps her reason.  
  
“Oh, blast it all, Ned. If I can’t fight, what good am I?” He asks miserably, even pouting a little, and Ned thinks him a little boy suddenly.  
  
She wants to snap at him, to roll her eyes at his sudden self-pity, which she has frankly had enough of. She is running his kingdom for him as best she can, both leaving her newborn and sending her first born away _for him_ , and it is only Ser Barristan’s gentle words of the people needing their king to rule more than fight, that removes him from this...from this wave of self-pity and back to the present, where a tourney is waiting for his presence to begin.  
  
It is an enjoyable day, she comes to realise, mainly looking to her daughter watching the knights joust for the prize and glory, instead of observing it herself. She will have few of these moments left to her, and she wishes to try and memorise every facet of her child’s face, the better to hold close to her heart at night when she will no longer have the privilege.  
  
There are roars of approval all around, and Sansa looks at her mother, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. She is not one for looking, what her daughter would call, ‘uncouth’, especially for all people to see, so Ned is confused at this, about to open her mouth to ask her dear daughter what the problem could be, but it is the crown of ruby red roses ringed with baby’s breath landing in her lap that makes Ned look up, quick to realise what was happening.  
  
The Hound and Ser Loras are both bowing to her, the Hound with a touch more mockery in his angry face, while the Knight of Flowers smiles sweetly up at her from where Sandor Clegane had unceremoniously tossed the crown into her lap from.  
  
Sansa’s hand clasps hers, and she squeezes gently back.  
  
Even with her love of songs and tales of knights, Sansa Stark had grown up learning that Stark women did not like crowns very much, nor being named Queens of Love and Beauty, and it is something the girl had taken to heart, something she had embraced whole-heartedly, that crowns of flowers were, even to her, frivolous and silly.  
  
“For our lady Hand,” Ser Loras says loudly, for all to hear when Clegane says nothing, “for it is due to you we have seen such chivalrous deeds, and so it is only you we could desire to name the Queen of Love and Beauty.”  
  
The smallfolk roar with approval, loving the knight for his words more than the lady he has honoured, and the court around her clap politely, murmuring their agreement.  
  
She nods in thanks, and looks down at the crown in dazed wonder. A red petal had already fallen from the vine, landing with velvety softness by her foot, and as she picked it up to place it upon her head, in response to Robert’s encouraging gestures, and stood for all to see, for all to applaud, she is showered in a swath of red, crawling down her shoulders like a crimson tide.


	13. I Pray That Something Picks Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let them search for hours, we will not return for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while. Yup. Ok. Cool.

_My Lord Kit,_  
  
 _Sansa had a safe departure, with a long embrace from her little sister. I do so wish you had been here to see Septa Mordane’s face when Arya had arrived early for the farewell party-not only early, but in clean skirts as well. Oh, they have grown, my love._  
  
 _They left by ship, and I don’t think I shall worry myself too much about their sailing-for it is still Summer down here, and with no Fall winds, there shan’t be any Fall storms on their voyage. Arya was more excited about the ship than Sansa, of course, but after a gentle word from her Prince Trystane (whom she thinks already very handsome at only eleven), she and Lady left us for their new home._  
  
 _Home. I miss you very much, my love. I fear I have not been a very good...myself, since I left you and our sons behind. Mayhaps it is the Mother’s Madness again, now my breasts are bare of milk for my young pup. I know I ask this in every letter, but how much has our son grown, my lord? Is he on his feet yet? I suppose Sofia is ready to wean him off her teat soon? How is Jon now that Wynafryd and he are finally wed?_  
  
 _Lord Baelish has been asking of you, of your sister recently. But she does not answer my ravens, and you gave me warning not to talk to the man when not necessary, so now I am curious-have you heard from your sister? If she replies could you ask her something from me? I believe she does not quite trust the small hand I played in her wedding to her late husband._  
  
 _I was crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty at the fool of a tourney the king gave in my name. It was foolish, but according to Lord Tyrion, whom I cannot seem to shake once he sneaks up on me, it has put me in great favour with the smallfolk, and marginally better favour with court. Apparently I am much too quiet._  
  
 _I dreamed of you last night._  
  
 _Much love,_  
  
 _Lady Eddara_  
 _Hand of the King_  
  
 _Ned_  
  
Ned looked at the words, looked to the pile of crumpled parchment on the floor around her feet, and nodded. Finally. There is always more to say, she thinks, but she supposes her husband doesn’t really need to know how the elder Lannister brother had, in jest, propositioned her to “melt a smile onto that frozen face.”  
  
Robert had been angry at his words, of course, though could not help but add in that he did seem to have a point. It had been a long while since Ned allowed herself to smile easily outside the company of her family, now reduced to just she and Arya and the three wolves they kept. A small pack, but a pack nonetheless.   
  


* * *

  
It had surprised both of them, he thinks, that the Lady Hand accepted his offer of a walk so easily. He ponders on it must having to do with her son, of whom he carried news of, a boy grown he liked to call friend.   
  
“It was a delightful wedding, my lady,” he is saying, trying not to mention how he had felt almost frozen standing in that gods forsaken godswood the Starks cherished so much. “Lady Wynafryd made a beautiful bride, and your son Jon had all the young girls sighing in his wake.”  
  
She must not think it fair, he thinks, watching her careful face betray her emotions ever so slightly. That she was to miss her first born’s wedding out of duty whilst he had been able, traveling South again from the Wall, stopping in on and deciding to stay for the festivities at whim.   
  
“Ah, Lady Stark-you are showing emotion, I fear.” And abruptly she becomes distant, cold, hard, even amidst the news of her son, her family. He tuts, and it earns him a withering glare. “I mean nothing by it, my lady-but from what I have learned and heard in my travels,” _brothels_ , he means, “you could stand to show your weakness as a woman every so often.”  
  
“What are you saying?” She asks suspiciously, and Tyrion bites back a sigh. Even her husband was not this wearisome of him. His legs have begun to cramp, and so he sits on a bench, waving unsuccessfully at her to join him, towering over him instead. She is tall for a woman, taller almost than his dear brother, whom he used to think a giant.  
  
“Us Southron folk know not what to make of a woman such as yourself, Lady Eddara. You are from the North, a cold and brutal land I have found, whereas we, as you can surely tell, are quite used to warmer climes, warmer...ladies.”  
  
And she just _looks_ at him, as if waiting for the trick in his words. She is smart, he thinks, but King’s Landing appears to have taken its toll on her belief in her ability to rule, its whispers and little birds and spiders making her unsure who to trust, and Tyrion does not blame her. Thus far the only thing she has been supported in has been to send a deluge of men up to the Wall in attempt to strengthen their numbers again. Other than that, he has learned she has been unable to do much else, with King’s Landing almost brought to financial ruin during the tourney in her honour, and much of the unfinished work Jon Arryn had left behind before his abrupt death.  
  
“Speak clearly now, Lord Tyrion,” she snaps, “I won’t be mocked with riddles.”  
  
Ah, yes. Smart, but also much too suspicious and wary. Her son’s friendship won’t get him very far with her, he thinks.   
  
“Showing the people you have personality beyond the North would be wise, my lady. Tell me, are there any more Stark children on the horizon?”  
  
“I am Lady _Hand_ , my lord-is that not enough to make the people revile me? I shan’t remind them further by swelling with child. Not to mention my lord husband is not even here. Tell me, is your advice to cuckold my own husband?” She speaks angrily now, eyes fierce and Tyrion, despite the tales he has heard, suddenly sees the woman who cut down the Kingsgaurd who stood between her and her dying sister.   
  
“Of course not, my lady, I-” he backpedals, minding that he doesn’t shrink too much under her icy gaze.  
  
“It would be wise for me to wait before carrying child again, a better time than being in King’s Landing.” She almost spits the name out, and Tyrion raises a brow at this, his voice wry.  
  
“My lady, know your history-the recent Hands before you have either been banished or died, so I do not think you should let your position stop you, not when you didn’t let being Warden stop you before. Was your son wrong in telling me that the Northmen held you in even higher esteem when you continued your rule whilst heavy with babe?”  
  
And so he watches her expose herself. She bites her lip, wipes a stray hair from her face and the nape of her neck, bundled back into a typical, plain Southron knot, the heat doing it no favours as dark strands fray around the edges. Tyrion lightly thinks he might very well attempt to pass a quiet message onto her ladies, maybe through one of the kitchen girls, on how best to display this lady from the North.   
  
“I fear, my lord, you may have a point.”  
  
And Tyrion just gives her a lopsided grin.   
  


* * *

  
It’s not that Arya wishes her sister back so that Septa Mordane would have someone else to torment, for Arya misses her, truly, but with Sansa gone and the Septa remaining, determined to turn Arya into a girl worthy of the title ‘princess’, she would really quite like Sansa back to distract the woman.   
  
It is only, she finds, when she says she is to sit with her betrothed, that she is left alone. And after almost being caught in her lie more than once, Arya begins to think she should actually follow through, thinking on how disappointed her mother would be, how her father would tell her it was bad to lie to the ones who care about us. Even though, she’s fairly sure, Septa Mordane can’t possibly _care_ about Arya Stark, not when the woman is so mean all the time.   
  
And so at first Arya finds herself sitting with Tommen, feeling utterly bored out of her skull, until the next day(after dancing of course), she pulls him by the hand and declares they are to do _something_ of interest. She brings Nymeria, and they wander around the Red Keep, further and further down into the shadowy depths until she hears the boy gasp beside her, and looks to what he is reacting to, and Arya finds her mouth dropping open as well.   
  
Dragons.   
  
These skulls are bigger than anything Arya’s ever seen, and neither, apparently, has Tommen, who looks beside himself in wonder, reaching out but not quite daring to touch the bone itself.   
  
Nymeria whines a little, and stays by the boy’s side while Arya boldly reaches out to touch.   
  
“It’s...it’s warm,” she marvels, and truly, the skeleton seems to have managed to retain its fiery heat from its past life, settled deep within it’s-well, it’s bones.   
  
The next day they go back, and Arya watches carefully how Tommen clambers through the magnificent teeth into the belly of the beast, watches how he becomes more and more at ease with a direwolf almost taller than him by their side, watches how his expression changes to a cunning smile when she suggests they cover themselves with dirt and run through the streets without a guard. It had been Tommen who had brought the small daggers for them, and the light woolen cap to cover his bright hair with.   
  
He might not be so useless after all, she begins to think one day, watching him as they washed the grubby disguises from their faces before returning to their respective parents. Septa Mordane would kill her, she had said, and so Tommen had shown her a small well, rarely used, where they would hide their clean clothes and scrub their skin clean.   
  
“It’s a good thing you look like a boy,” he had said one day, and though she’s about to snap at him, tell him she _isn’t_ a boy, she suddenly finds she doesn’t quite care, actually.   
  
“Do you know any of your half-brothers and sisters, Tommen?” She had asked one day after telling him about Jon.   
  
Tommen frowned.  
  
“No, I don’t. What makes you ask?” Arya shrugged in response, and though she knows she shouldn’t speak of what she has only overheard, she has begun to feel like she can trust the boy with her secrets.   
  
“I heard my mother speaking of them one day. She says they don’t look like you and Myrcella and Joffrey much, but _I_ don’t look like my father at all, so...I’m not even sure why she was talking of it.”  
  
“I could ask my mother, if you like.” He offers, eyes bright and hopeful-this is a new mystery to them, and thus far he hasn’t been very useful in solving the others they’ve come across. Arya shakes her head no, however.   
  
“No, Tommen. Remember?”  
  
And Tommen nods his head, remembering.  
  
“ _Don’t tell mother!_ ” They both chorused, and Arya smiles at him, thinks that at least she got the nice prince, the one that sadly, was rarely missed from the Keep whenever they ran through the streets of King’s Landing together. The one who, in a bout of usefulness, had even started to grow taller, gangly almost like herself, and Arya thinks that he could be strong, one day. And a strong wolf in her pack is a good wolf to have, she thinks, nodding to herself.   
  
Nymeria seems to agree.   
  
And so it with some surprising reluctance when she is told she is to part from her friend for a time, that she and her mother are to ride out to the Riverlands to greet her father and younger brother in his Keep.   
  
“How long will you be gone, though?”  
  
“I don’t know.” She shrugs, “But we’re coming back though-it’s only the Riverlands, and then we’ll bring my father and brother back to King’s Landing.”  
  
And Tommen pouts a little. Arya almost wants to offer to ask if he could come as well, but despite what her sister had said, he is still a prince, and him coming would probably involve the queen and king and knights and to be honest, Arya would much rather spend some time with her mother (not the mother Hand, either) and to be reunited with her father and little brother Robb, who has already had his first nameday.   
  
Hopefully he’ll be like Tommen has grown to be, she thinks, and she’ll most definitely tell him about Syrio, and when he’s older he can join her dancing lessons, and then maybe with father to distract mother, she, Tommen and Robb can sneak out of the Keep together, and-  
  
“Well you’ll miss the stable cat give birth to a new litter. Tell me what you want to call yours and I’ll pick one out for you.” He demands, prim and proper, shrugging into his gilded vest. And Arya thinks hard on this-Nymeria had been easy to name, she remembers, but she’ll need to name this kitten something good as well.   
  
“I want a girl kitten. Dark, if it’s there, and you can name her Beryl for me.”  
  
“Beryl?” She nods. Yes, Beryl is a good name. Much better than ‘Lady Whiskers’ or ‘Ser Pounce’, but she  knows how much Tommen loves his kittens, so she holds her tongue from saying anything. It is fun, she thinks, to have a friend who speaks back to her.  
  
“Yes. Just Beryl.”  
  


* * *

  
Ned has never seen her husband’s Keep before, and as her party rides over the drawbridge, Arya on her stubborn pony (“Mother, I am _seven_ ,” she had protested, “Sansa was seven when _she_ first rode a proper horse!” Ned does not quite have the heart to tell her that Sansa was also a much taller seven year old who actually practiced her horsewomanship with care instead of focussing on her dancing.), rides ahead, jumping down form her mount and into her father’s arms, almost knocking him to the ground.   
  
Little Robb, she sees with a sad smile in her heart, is clinging to his father’s side, clutching onto a leg to keep himself upright, his direwolf towering over him protectively as Nymeria and the two unnamed wolves nuzzle around one another, nipping and growling playfully.   
  
Her pup.  
  
He is one, near two, she thinks, and oh, what a beautiful pup he is, she marvels, scooping him up into her arms, and just-just holding him, breathing in his scent, feeling his warm little body squirm against her own, and as her husbands arms wrap around them, and Arya hugs his waist, Ned feels as if she were at home again.  
  


* * *

  
It is a frightening process, she thinks, getting to know your own child, trying to convince them that you are in fact, their mother, to have them become comfortable around you and only you, and though Kit holds them both close to help Robb learn his mama, Ned sometimes finds herself waking with tears in her eyes in the mornings, heart freshly broke the night before at her pup shying away from her.   
  
Kit holds her though, invites their young son into their bed, and she finds herself up late many a night, watching the boy lay between them, feels her husband’s hands stroking her face, her hair, remembering her as she is of her long seen child.   
  
“He is so big now,” she whispers, and though she feels her throat tighten, the tears will not come, not this time.   
  
“Aye. As soon as he began to walk, Wynafryd had a time running after him. He is as bad as his sister, I fear.” And though she does not look, marveling at the pale skin and cherub cheeks, the long lashes resting over his Tully blue eyes, she feels the smile in his words, remembers the letters she had received, the moments she would drink by herself in her solar, imagining herself watching her pup, _Robb_ , make his first awkward steps towards her, a happy smile bubbling on his face.   
  
He has been brought up well, however, and Ned has her husband to thank for that, this delightful child of almost two years somehow able to figure out that she is to be called ‘mama’, and though she knows it only natural for a child to choose an affinity to one parent over the other (Ned herself chose her mother, before being sent away), and though she wishes she had been given the chance to be in the running for that role, she finds herself watching her husband and son together, and no, no tears will come.   
  
Her heart has clenched itself whole with happiness, and no tears are needed.   
  


* * *

  
It is too short a time they spend in the Riverlands, but it is a time where things change, yet remain the same, somehow.   
  
Ned remains with Robb and her ladies in her lord husband’s solar, Arya, to her Septa’s relief, a constant companion, eager to watch her younger brother as if he is to at any moment stand and grow to her size, to play with her, and Kit watches from afar, spending much of his time with his neglected castellan and steward, overseeing the lands in his family’s name, and it is without thought that Ned sits to his left while they sup at night.   
  
It is a home, Kit thinks, that his lady wife must have expected, envisioned for herself while still a girl. The plainer daughter (though he’s not sure how, really), the less-loved and adored second child, ready to be set up for a lady’s life, always sitting with her head bowed, waiting for her husband to come to her bed, waiting for her children, _the heirs_ , waiting waiting waiting.   
  
He does not want to go onto King’s Landing, can see that Ned is less than enthused but resigned at the prospect. It is only the way their second daughter, the daughter less startling in her comeliness, no shock of Tully blue sparkling in her eyes, no fire kissed hair dancing around her long little face, is speaking of her adventures with the great dragon skulls that gives him a little pause for thought, especially when she barks with laughter at something she and her sister had shared in the Red Keep, something that puts a small smile on his wife’s quiet face, that maybe, for a while, even further South can be their home much unlike other homes.  
  


* * *

  
They are two days from King’s Landing, and with a gentle nod of the head, Ned follows her husband’s lead, deep, deep, deeper into the woods, leaving Arya and Robb and Nymeria and the wolf Septa Mordane frequently complains about, that their son, now two, calls ‘Wuff’, behind with the camp, and suddenly the trees close in all around them, leaving them alone, save the two direwolves who disappear in between the surrounding green.  
  
Kit has a peculiar look on his face, and it is only as he dismounts, rushes over to pluck her off her mount as well, that Ned finally realises his intent, watching as he ties the horses to a low hanging branch, tugging her close to him when he returned.  
  
“Kit...” she warns, moving closer to his warm body nonetheless, brow raised at the smirk on his lips.   
  
“Ned...” he mimics, moving his mouth closer to hers, a ghost of warm breath dancing on her lips. “Eddara,” he drawls, voice low, and he must be closer than she thought, for when she starts to bite her lip, it is his she captures instead. He growls a little in return, captures her own in an agonisingly slow kiss that makes Ned feel like she is hotter than anything the dragons of old could have created, trailing fires up and down her spine, deep within.   
  
She pulls him down to her without preamble, dragging him to the grassy ground beneath them, to the rock which she soon finds herself sitting on, and as he pulls back, breathing heavily, kneeling before her, she can’t help but suddenly burst into the giggles of her youth. Kit just licks his smiling lips in return, and Ned cups his face in her hands, touching him as if for the very first time.   
  
She hums a little, and they remain quietly staring into each other’s eyes, the only sound her thumping heart, the rustle of her skirts and breeches as her husband’s talented hands run their way up her legs, quickly, from practiced memory, unlacing her, finding her hot, warm beneath his touch. She lets out a little gasp when he finds her wet already, but it is his eyes, his dark gaze keeping her own so pinned to his that makes her feel as if it were her wedding night once again.   
  
It is he, _not_ she, she thinks with a second of pride, who breaks their staring contest, leaning towards her, gently laying her down over the slab of black rock, fingers running tracing their way over her mound, teasing her with their proximity to the bundle of nerves that yearn for a familiar touch, when he speaks.  
  
“I’m going to fuck you on this rock.” He states, voice a low growl and Ned feels her heart contract, letting out a shuddering breath as his fingers finally, _finally_ make contact, and it is only when he glances quickly down to her bunched skirts, that she allows herself to loll her head back a little, eyes fluttering shut.   
  
It feels raw, almost, this coupling, this _fucking_ , and though they had laid many times together when first reunited after almost two years, this somehow feels different, she feels, one hand tangled in his hair as he leaves hot, open mouthed kisses along her neckline, her neck, the other grasping at his back, his bottom as he thrusts into her again and again.   
  
It is not startling, nor is it quite like the blinding lights that she has become accustomed to in their bed, but for the first time, Ned hears herself howling to the woods around them, listens with a foggy mind as the wolves close by howl back, as Kit reaches his own completion, breathing heavy into her neck.   
  
They lay there, on that rock, and again, Ned finds herself laughing into the bright Fall sky above them.   
  
It is a night she will think of fondly, almost with irony, at the thought of their demure, personable Bran, being brought to life within her, talking to wolves.


	14. Next To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to the Red Keep, a royal match, and future plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is starting to ramp up a bit and doesn't feel too much like filler. Because it isn't, really, but I guess it also isn't the most ~exciting, so to speak.

The first time Ned tells Robert she is with child, he roars into his cups, and vaults himself across the room to her, picking her up like a doll and spinning her in a circle.  
  
“You shall be as fat as me again, old girl!” He had cried out, had laughed at the twitch of her lips, the beginning of a smile. “It’s that husband of yours, isn’t it? If a king can’t command his own Hand to smile and blush, it must be the husband.”  
  
Queen Cersei had looked to her with calculating eyes, her emerald gaze running up and down Kit’s form as if trying to see what she could make of him, the handsome Tully from the Riverlands.  
  
“It shall be such sweetness to hear another babe’s laughter in these large halls again, Lady Eddara.” She had finally said, and Ned curtsied low while Kit bowed.  
  
Kit, of course, is much more popular than her-even though the whispers and rumours of him before his arrival were not kind, many wondering if he were in fact a eunuch to allow his wife such standing in marriage, it is his charm and grace that the smallfolk and court alike fall in love with, calling out salutations to _him_ on their pregnancy, respectfully ignoring Ned in favour of the child growing inside.  
  
They do not call him Lady Kit here.  
  
It is easy, this pregnancy, and along with the smallfolk shoving their way past Jory to give her bump a blessing, Ned has found the Small Council to be rather...amiable with her requests. They shouldn’t even _be_ requests, Kit had said, annoyance lacing his words when she brought him up to date on all she had been doing in the capital, but now Ned feels as if she could ask for the throne itself and they’d somehow find a way to get it for her.  
  
Stannis Baratheon, of course, has still not returned from Dragonstone. Robert shrugs it off, Renly rolls his eyes, and Kit looks almost infuriated on her behalf at the man who will not make contact, who so blatantly disrespects the king’s council.  
  
“Stannis Baratheon is not, nor has he ever been, a friend of mine, my lord,” she had said over her sewing one evening, voice calm. “For Stannis Baratheon thought he was to meet a proud son of Lord Rickard Stark, not some cast aside daughter.” She finishes, drawing the thread tight, squinting down at her work to count stitches.  
  
Arya is sitting at her feet, leaning back against her legs, looking up to her father who watches the fire. She is also meant to be sewing, and though Septa Mordane has set her more and more difficult, intricate patterns to master, Ned finds it in herself not to task the girl when she is sitting so quietly for her parents.  
  
Kit looks to her, a sad glint in his eyes, and Ned can see that for a brief moment, he is seeing what the king’s brother sees: this not-quite woman running amok with her sister’s betrothed, almost shameless in her actions while quietly protesting her innocence around a man like Robert Baratheon (Robert, of course, was a lot louder, a touch more violent in these moments), but her husband wouldn’t be himself without quickly shaking his head and offering up a comforting smile that manages to say so much with so little.  


* * *

  
It is when the child begins to sit heavy, bringing a large swell to Ned’s body when even Robert himself begins falling over himself to make life easier for her, demanding Pycelle to dote on her, Renly to keep her company, Kit himself to keep her entertained whilst laid up in bed.  
  
Kit doesn’t mention the suggestive tone the king had taken with him, actually nudging him with his elbow as the queen merely called for more wine, and he swears he saw her roll her eyes, but upon noticing Arya attempting to steal the prince away, Kit quickly finds himself busy with other tasks, marching his youngest daughter to her rooms while Septa Mordane followed close behind, a sleeping Robb in her arms.  
  
“But _father_ ,” she whined, “Tommen _wanted_ to go play with Nymeria, he said...”  
  
And Kit isn’t having any of it, just ushers her into her room for the night, sees Robb into bed, and with a ‘my lord’ from Septa Mordane, all but collapses into bed next to his large, gently snoring wife.  
  
He honestly didn’t think coming to court would have been as exhausting as it has turned out to be. Not that he believed his lady wife to exaggerate her troubles in the capital (on the contrary-she had, it seemed, rather downplayed the miseries of the Red Keep), and though he is not blind to his wife being...well, being a woman in a man’s position, he had thought he had become quite accustomed to the snipes and gripes about her name when he had first announced he was to marry the Lady of the North to the Riverlands.  
  
Hoster Tully had seemed indignant, the idea of a son of his going to live away with his new wife, and though Edmure had initially seemed supportive, unable to quite turn against the younger brother who had become a father figure to the Tully children, even he was not able to hold back his reservations about Ned.  
  
“She is a warrior to be sure, Kit, but what shame will be brought on our House if you were not to be...be the husband?” Edmure had finally snapped, and though Kit could not deny his own reservations that haunted him with guilt at times, he had never hated his brother more than in that moment.  
  
He ended up spending that night in the Sept, praying to the Maiden and Crone, asking them for guidance, hoping his mother would eventually reply. She never did, but maybe one day he would hear her voice again. He thinks she would like Ned, would be able to appreciate the true Tully nature of this wondrous woman who had asked his hand in marriage, who had so bravely bared her secret to him, one he secretly swore to take to his grave.  
  
The boy was kind and gentle and quiet like his-like his mother, he had sternly told himself, already enforcing the false truth into his mind so that it might be easier to bear, easier to look into the young lad’s eyes and see the right Stark in there.  
  
It is warmer than he imagined it to be, King’s Landing, but he does not mind, not truly. It has been so long since he has not had to bundle himself up in his blankets, but not being able to comfortably hold his wife who swore the room felt like a wildfyre was something to be missed. He looked at her naked sleeping form, and thought of the task she had quietly asked him to help her with-Jon Arryn had been looking into Robert’s bastards before his death, and Ned could not make heads nor tails of it.  
  
“It is not as if it is brand new information,” she had said, looking at him over her desk, “though if Jon had indeed been looking into these children, I fear it must be of some importance.”  
  
It had been a young lad he had met that day, going by the name of Gendry. He had waited for him outside the blacksmith’s where the boy was an apprentice, deciding to take a more casual, less conspicuous approach to the matter-Ned had said he should dress in his finest, should bring a signed letter from her own hand, _the_ Hand, to help with anyone unwilling to answer his inquiries, but Kit had merely shook his head, and with a kiss teased his wife lightly about being so quick to show her hand, relying on the gaudy pin on her breast to get answers, and Ned had shook her head and smiled a little.  
  
So Kit unwittingly took a cue from his daughter, and in his most threadbare clothes, sat outside Tobho Mott’s smith and waited for the bastard. An urchin, with the urging of a copper, tipped him off, and quietly, Kit approached the boy. He was indeed the spitting image of his sire, and when he had gruffly answered Kit’s polite, lightly asked questions, Kit sank back into the crowd around them, allowing the boy to journey on.  
  
She had seemed almost relieved when he told her what he had learned (the boy was most definitely Robert’s bastard, the mother was long dead, he now worked at a blacksmith), but still puzzled over whatever new theory she had come up with about her foster father’s doings in the capital before his death. Staring up at the ceiling, he thought on her whispered confession earlier that day, and Kit thought it must have been an awfully terrible thought for her to act so reluctant to tell even him.  
  
“I had thought that perhaps...Jon and Stannis were looking into the matter because they suspected the queen of cuckolding Robert.” She had said, eyes lowered, shoulders tense. “And though I don’t believe Cersei to hold much love for Robert, I also do not believe her to be a stupid woman-she is a Lannister, after all.”  
  
Kit had remained quiet at this, mulling over this new information. The queen seemed to hold absolutely everyone she came across in contempt; he couldn’t imagine her finding someone to willingly open her legs to other than her king.  
  
Shaking his mind free of thoughts of the beautifully bitter queen, he turned to his own, and gently reached for her hand resting atop their growing babe, loosely weaving their fingers together, finally closing his eyes to glowing moon and going to sleep.  


* * *

  
_Arya,_   
  
_Thank you ever so much for the nameday present-I shall be sure to make use of the garnet the next time Prince Doran declares a feast._   
  
_It is still so frightfully warm down here, but at night I leave my windows open and the sea sends the most delightful wave of wind to cool down in. I have even started to freckle more under the sun. Princess Arianne says it looks becoming on me, but I fear what Prince Trystane will say when he returns from Sunspear-oh, I fear I am not clear-I remain at the Water Gardens for now. It is so beautiful here. You would enjoy it, I think._   
  
_But the prince-I remember one of Queen Cersei’s maids talking about bathing in milk, so I suppose that should help. I shan’t want to look ugly for him. He is ever so handsome Arya, like father. And so kind. I do my best not to seem so little to him, to be more like mother, but when he presented me with a Sand Steed of my very own (I have named her Beryl, like in the tales Old Nan used to tell us, remember?), I fear I rather squealed quite loudly._   
  
_I should like it if you were to visit, Arya. How is Prince Tommen? Have you stolen your prince yet? Oh, I am but japing with you, I am sorry._   
  
_What is Robb like? He is two now, right? Is mother as difficult with this pregnancy as she was with Robb’s?_   
  
_Love always,_   
  
_Sansa_   


* * *

  
_Sansa,_   
  
_Septa Mordane helped me pick out the colours. I wanted grey stones because you’re a Stark, but she said the purple would be “lovely” in the South. She’s annoying._   
  
_Mother squeals sometimes when father is around, so don’t worry about Trystane not liking it. I laugh with Tommen sometimes._   
  
_What does Beryl look like?? Tommen gave me a kitten I named Beryl, and she is dark with white socks. He wanted me to name her Boots, but I think that’s stupid. I didn’t tell him that though._   
  
_Robb is small and talks a lot and loudly. He looks like you and father._   
  
_Mother is HUGE again. But she says people like her now, so I think this is a good pregnancy. More men and outlaws and rapers were sent to the Wall yesterday, so she had a good day for that- you remember those days._   
  
_Love,_   
  
_Arya_   


* * *

  
Ned tried her best not to grimace as she sat, finding herself next to none other than Mace Tyrell, who looked just as uncomfortable as she felt, sitting in the stifling hot great hall. Nearby, the queen shivered a delicate little shiver, and called for a shawl for her and the guests.  
  
And so Ned found herself sitting next to a pompous, sweaty fat man, feeling fat and sweaty herself, now with an added shawl draped over her previously bare shoulders. Merete and Inger had been especially generous with their creations as of late, keeping in mind their lady’s dislike of the warm weather, on top of the heavy child she carried.  
  
And still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of jealousy watching her husband sit next to the queen and Prince Joffrey’s betrothed, Margaery Tyrell. A pretty girl, to be sure, but there was something in her eyes, her calculated gaze that Ned found herself, unsurprisingly, distrusting of. Yet again, Ned ruefully wishes she had spent less time growing up with Robert Baratheon, and more time learning the calculating ways of women.  
  
Luckily, after only a few terse moments spent with the Lord of Highgarden, Ned is able to deduce that it is Lady Olenna’s gaze that holds the beautiful new Princess captive. It does not take a fool to note the way he has been placed as far away from the King as possible, without placing him below the salt, next to her, sitting out of Robert’s immediate eye line.  
  
In truth, she had been the one to support this tie between the houses, surprising Renly and the rest of the Small Council, even her husband, and displeasing Robert and Cersei greatly. Though when had she ever had the queen’s love? Robert had indeed forgiven the Tyrells when they bent the knee, but there are times when Ned thinks her friend older than he seems, so quick he is to remember old wrongs against him.  
  
And so Ned finds herself quietly excusing herself from the meal, desperate for a bath, immensely glad for the crowded room to help her escape unnoticed. Her back has been paining her much of the day, and though the little one has long since announced himself to be a boy, she is not quite yet as large as she was with Robb. Kit, she knows, is waiting for her at the foot of the Tower, having escaped the meal earlier (and oh, how the ladies of court had swooned when they discovered him to leave to tend to his son. Ned had barely managed to not roll her eyes.)  
  
“TYRELL!” She hears Robert boom just as she is at the door, and turns to see what trouble she shall have to deal with now.  
  
But it is not Mace Tyrell Robert is looking to, it is her. Her throat tightens a little at the cruel look he gives her, eyes wandering up and down her heavy form. She tries not to cock her head in reply, brow arched, such disrespect never to be tolerated, not even from the king’s foster sister, but in that moment, she just feels so tired.  
  
“Your Grace,” she curtsies a little, “Lord Tyrell is sitting to your left. I am but your Lady Hand.”  
  
And as the laughter erupts around her, lead by Robert himself, Ned realises this was the wrong thing to say, the joke landing solely on her, and much by mistake, on Mace Tyrell himself.  
  
She straightens up again, feeling a shot of lightning down her spine, and schools her face into a neutral gaze. Robert had been in the habit of bullying her a little since she lead the Tyrell match, and she is glad her husband is no longer in the room, for this would surely not end any better than it could now.  
  
“Ned,” Robert begins, holding his goblet out for more wine, “I am sorry, old girl-for you have begun to resemble a particular flower, I am mistaken.”  
  
“It is no worry to me, Your Grace,” she grits out as sweet as she can, wishing her friend would stop. Much like the Tyrells, she had been quickly forgiven this act of making a betrothal for his son, but wine and a quick eye has made her friend remember this recent wrong against him, and again Ned finds herself wanting to scream, to shout at him until her words dried him out, made him see sense. When they were children together, it had been easy to knock him off his feet, despite being larger, easy to make him understand that she was not just a second child sent away in favour of her more comely sister.  
  
And right then, it happens. Robert is saying something, and though the words are clear in her ears, Ned cannot quite process them as she feels her stomach drop at the sickly realisation that her babe’s water is now trickling down her legs, her wide skirts and stern face hiding the evidence before the court.  
  
They are all gazing at her again, laughing at something Prince Joffrey must have said, for he is looking to his smirking father for approval at his jape.  
  
Deep breath, Ned.  
  
Her jaw locks, and much to her surprise, it is the queen whose eyes widen a touch, and it is Ser Jaime who notices, bowing to his king and queen, and quickly escorting her from the hall, a trail of wet and kerfuffle as Robert begins to realise what it happening behind them.  
  
It will be another time, another day when she thinks on this moment again, mind clear of birthing pains, but that is another time, another day when she is not about to give birth to a premature son, so small, yet so strong.  


* * *

  
“Ah, Ned,” the king is saying, carefully watching Bran from a distance in her arms. “Can you forgive me, old girl?”  
  
And it just about tears his heart out to see the flicker of hesitation on her face, replaced quickly with a smile for her king, the man who abuses his friendship with her entirely too much for his taste, and nods, tears crowding her dark eyes a bit, nose sniffling a little.  
  
“Of course, Robert.” And his eyes brighten, smile broad on his fat face as he steps forward, getting a better look at Bran, the boy whose father spent day and night in the Sept praying for, the boy whose newly attached direwolf gives his mother hope that this is a sign of his strength, despite being so small, to the boy who arrived much to early, but just on time.  
  
Robert holds his hands up, chuckles, and gently shakes his head ‘no’ to holding the boy, just sits next to the mother and son, putting a soft arm around her shoulders.  
  
Kit watches from across the room, and if not for exhaustion of prayer and worry, feels he would rather run the man through with a sword at the moment, if he could summon up the strength. He knows his wife likes to pretend she doesn’t hear the things said about her still, deciding instead to bury herself in her work, quite believing that her actions should be able to speak for her, that if she has to, she’ll be the best gods damned Lady Hand the kingdom has ever seen, but Kit knows what to listen to, knows she can hear the talk as well as he can.  
  
They don’t speak of it as often as he’d like to, both mutually deciding to wait until they can finally leave King’s Landing to address the cloud looming over their heads, and though that means Robert’s death (for Kit is sure that Joffrey would not wish to see a woman as his Hand), and wishing for it, Kit cannot find it in his heart to feel particularly sad about that inevitable day.  
  
No, he doesn’t wish for Ned to feel that pain of loss of a friend, a king, but it is when he sees his wife so quick to forgive this...this _brother_ of hers for his atrocious behaviour towards her when Kit Tully imagines in quiet detail the bells ringing in the death of a man he has grown to so keenly dislike.  


* * *

  
It is to be a year from now, the turn of the century looming on the horizon, but Ned is already feeling the strain of yet another tourney-this time, for Robert’s nameday, “the start of years without Targaryen scum in it, old girl,”, he had said, and with a mental wince at the bloody bodies she had seen Tywin Lannister lay before Robert, Ned had nodded and sighed. (It is strange, she thinks, that she no longer thinks of her first child whenever Robert drunkenly rants about those in power before him, but Ned also takes loving solace in that he has truly become _hers_ , not just in name.)  
  
She watched his back as he strolled out of the Small Council rooms, and with a strength she wasn’t sure she had any longer, somehow forced herself to turn to Littlefinger, asking him for his financial forecast a year from now.  
  
It wasn’t that Ned ever thought the job to be easy, but she had thought Robert to give her little more time to rid the realm of the debt she had found it in, to rid them of the control the Lannisters held so easily. They were a dangerous family, not to be trusted, and yet they were all she saw whenever she took a turn around the Keep.


	15. Never Ever, Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun never sets, and the wind, it never forgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The product of avoiding homework. Who would've thought homework to be an enabler? Huh.

The girl skipped down the halls, once again acting oblivious to the troubles her lord and lady parents found themselves in. Servants avoided her eye, handmaids dipping into curtsies as she flew past, stifling her giggles over the soft patter of her slippers on the stone beneath her.  
  
Mother would be cross, of course, but father wouldn’t care. He never did, she thought, and she summoned up fond memories of him, forcing herself to come up with a scarce handful of them, enough to fit into her small hands. But that was enough, she told herself, remembering the words she had heard father tell the prince, of how one didn’t necessarily have to love one’s family to be part of it.  
  
Other things had been said, tough words forced from a stern mouth. Words speaking of lions and wolves and flowers and dragons and fires and gods knew what else, for when she had spied her Septa’s skirts a second too late, she had been whisked away, a sharp rap to the knuckles and an angry tugging of her ear in reprimand.  
  
Septa didn’t tell her father, though-this much she knows, for even Septa knows he finds such reports too trivial, and would tell her (Septa, that is) off himself, angry at having had his time wasted.  
  
And so Shireen _pit patters_ down the empty stone halls, enjoying the light breeze pushing her dark hair back, skimming over the dead skin on her face and neck, a gentle graze she would never find the words to describe to anyone who cared to ask.  
  
Mother has been distracted these last few weeks, and though Shireen knows she too must also follow the beautiful Red Lady’s word of faith, she’s not sure if she can, quite yet. Already she has been ignored by the Seven, desperate when she was young to pray away the greyscale marring her face, and so despite keeping them in her thoughts for her father and family, she does not really want to know this new god’s reasons for leaving her this way-so utterly useless to her family, useless to her future, constantly driving those brave enough to stand before her father away, wincing at her face, her ears, her mother.  
  
She is young still, but Shireen is not stupid by any means. Her father has been raising his voice more and more, has been arguing with Ser Davos and Maester Cressen, and though she’s been unable to figure out what is happening, she is glad for the mystery. Devan has not been around much lately, nor Edric, and Patches had scared her so much the last time she saw him, going on and on about skewered men, she has been sure in her plan to avoid him as of late.  
  
Another raven had arrived the day prior, written from a Riverland Lord, she hears, but her father has it thrown in the fire. There is a woman he does not wish to treat with, and though she at first thought it to be the Red Lady he spoke of (her father has yet to be as convinced as her mother with this Priestess), Shireen isn’t quite so sure anymore.  
  
But as she stops to look out a window to the seas below, watching the clouds dance with the sun, Shireen Baratheon thinks only on what the next day is to hold in store for her.  
  


* * *

  
It is strange, she thinks, looking down to the little babe, her quietly small boy resting at her breast, how quickly life can pass you by, even in such a short span of time.  
  
Bran is eight months now, and it is to her own negligence of her body that it had taken her so long to realise she has missed her bleeding yet again. She had thought it due to Bran’s early birth, her body taking  longer to recover, to turn back to its regular ways, and to be perfectly honest, she had enjoyed the respite of not having to worry about those certain aspects of her life.  
  
But it is as she once overheard Old Nan telling her mother about-a woman is most fertile right after birthing a child. Not that Ned had thought herself exempt from the rule, but she and Kit certainly hadn’t put much thought into their coupling once Bran had reached a relatively healthy size for a babe his age. It was unsure whether he would grow like his brother and sisters had, like his mother and father had, but Pycelle had pronounced the boy as strong as any other, and the new parents had breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
She will wait to tell anyone the news, she thinks, deciding that getting Robert and the rest of the Small Council to see reason on the Targaryen girl’s pregnancy took priority over being treated like a porcelain doll-during pregnancy, she had been the height of popularity, it seemed, but after Bran’s untimely arrival, most think her quick to break. And so without reservation, she resumes her time with her sword, grateful of the gentle swings Jory, Kit, and even, when she is feeling nostalgic and cautious, Arya swings at her, pleased that she is as nimble on her feet as she was before.  
  
Ned has aged, has birthed three beautiful babes, and though has been unable to retain her former shape after birthing Bran, she thinks her husband doesn’t quite mind the new curves and heavy breasts and red and silver threaded scars lacing up her torso. If anything, she thinks one day in the bath, it is this new body-soft where it once was hard, slanted where it once was lean-that seems to be blamed for this new child inside her, so small still.  
  
Eddara Stark won’t be able to take on any of the Kingsguard any time soon, but then again, so long as her family were safe and not locked up in towers, she didn’t think she would ever want or need to. She sighs, sinking deeper into the steaming bath, listening to the door open and lazily opens an eye to see her husband approach, his steps now muffled by the water around her ears.  
  
His grin- _that_ grin, she realises-fades quickly, however, when he rushes closer, and the world seems a bit darker when Ned glimpses the red stained water fading around her, and barely feels the edge of the bath as her head collapses back into blackness.  
  
She wakes not long after, soaked to the bone, laid out on her bed, her husband, Jory, and a nursemaid she doesn’t recognise standing over her.  
  


* * *

  
Mother’s been quiet, and father’s been stern. Arya doesn’t know what to do, but does her best to tug Robb along with her, their direwolves padding softly behind them, while Tommen laughs, and Septa holds Bran in her arms, always watching the three with a hard eye.  
  
No one says anything, and Arya doesn’t either. She catches the queen’s eye more than once, and the king keeps drinking and eating like he normally does. Tommen never asks, and she thinks that if she knew, she’d possibly tell him if he did, if only to ask him what she should do. Sansa would know. Septa keeps her mouth in a straight, hard line to match her eyes, and Robb merrily waddles along behind her.  
  
Sansa would know what to do, what to say, but Arya doesn’t know what to tell her. It is only when she...accidentally (honestly) listens in on a conversation between maids gossiping about the king’s tourney in the next year that she finds out that Dorne is sending, amongst others, Prince Trystane, and Sansa back to her.  
  
It is many months from now, but maybe Sansa has become a little less useless in all this time since she left.  
  


* * *

  
_No one knows. No one knew._  
  
It’s all she can think of, and yet life goes on, and Ned can’t stop herself from dreaming of finding her sister in that bed of blood, can’t stop her dreams from showing herself in a literal pool of watery red, the loss of a life seeping from her, taking a little of her own along with it.  
  
The remaining direwolf howls at night when she wakes from these dreams, and she’s had to have him penned in the Red Keep’s godswood to stop him from rousing the whole castle out of sleep.  
  
It has been two months now, and Kit doesn’t touch her any longer-no, now he _handles_ her. She has become a doll, a weak woman to be looked at and to sit prettily for him, and she loathes it. But then she remembers that he knows, and leaves it be. There are times when she wishes she could separate from herself, her betraying body, because to live in it keeps her close to the bloody battleground within. And oh, it hurts. The physical pain was non-existent, but the emotional pain that twisted her heart, her insides so thoroughly, comes to her in jolts that she passes off as a mother’s sleeplessness to those who ask.  
  
She’d be foolish to think no one suspects something amiss, but with only three witnesses, Ned is sure no one knows the complete truth, and she is comfortable with rumour.  
  
Robert keeps drinking, Cersei keeps staring with disdain, and Ned continues on. She always does, she is a Stark, and winter is coming.  
  


* * *

  
She didn’t think she’d ever think her parents... _old_ , but there it is. Mother, though immaculate and polished, looks older than her years, and father, still handsome, is much the same, though smiles widely as Trystane lifts her from Beryl, her grey Sand Steed that Arya is already plotting to steal, she can see as her younger sister eyes her mount.  
  
It is a sunny day, and her skin still pale (despite the spots of sun-Trystane called them kisses once), so Sansa is much able to wave away any redness in her cheeks to the warmth of its rays when her prince tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and sternly reminds herself of her family not ten feet away when her thoughts trail off into wishing for him to kiss her just the once, to finally meet his dark lips to her pink, and oh how sweet it could be-  
  
“Nymeria!” Arya calls out, and Sansa ducks around her betrothed to watch Lady and Nymeria nip and bark at each other, two other direwolves joining in on the pile, and though there is no snow on the ground, nor is her brother Jon anywhere to be seen, Sansa has never felt more at home.  
  
This night it is she who sneaks into her sister’s room, Lady moving quietly behind her, and Arya is wide awake, sitting upright in bed, looking at her expectantly.  
  
“Oh, Arya,” she sighs, moving into her sister’s arms, now longer and ganglier than they were before she left for Sunspear, sharp elbows roughened by the gods only knew what, but that doesn’t matter, not truly, not now. They sink into the soft pillows, and though she is used to a much warmer clime now, Sansa relishes in the much cooler air of King’s Landing. It does not take long for Arya to pepper her with questions of her horse, of Lady, and even, of her prince.  
  
“You have grown so much, sister.” She whispers into the dark, feeling her sister shift beside her.  
  
“Not that much. The queen still doesn’t like me, and Septa is glad you’re back, and I’m still not taller than Tommen.” Arya counters, and she doesn’t bother to hide her smile in the moonlit room. “I hate being small.” She hears her say in a soft voice, and for a moment, Sansa wishes alongside her sister for the same thing.  
  
“Mother is-”  
  
“Sad.” Arya interrupts with a tone of urgency. “Sad, Sansa, and no one will tell me why.”  
  
“Perhaps they mean not to have you be sad, either.” She suggests, though her own curiosity is piqued a little, she must admit. But no, a princess must respect the decisions of others, especially her own mother. Arya hmphs in response, and Sansa can only hope for something else to occupy her little sister.  
  
“Tell me of your prince, my wildling sister.”  
  
And she grunts a little at the elbow in her side, but giggles too at the hint of stammer she won’t mention in her sister’s voice. They are more alike than people give them credit for, but Sansa is glad for it.  
  


* * *

  
“The Dornish seem quite taken with your Hand, my love.” And Robert just grunts in response, eyes roaming up and down the serving girl like a piece of meat. It is not often they dine together, and not in such a quiet setting, their children sat around them, her ghastly little brother making faces that Myrcella and Tommen laugh at and mimic back to him.  
  
She tries again.  
  
“I heard Oberyn talk of how strong the North and South will be with the marriage between them.” And oh, how easy it is to keep the contempt from her voice, how practiced she has become. She knows Tyrion is giving her some attention, but she ignores him still, watching her fat, royal husband’s cheeks shine with grease and wine.  
  
It is that girl, Sansa, she muses, who is the cause of this. A pretty girl, delightfully so, and naively charming too. One would have to be so to win the Martells over to the Starks, and though she doubts she will have to worry much for now, it will be better to have this small seed of discontent ruminating in that alcohol soaked mind of his.  
  
“Naturally, dear sister, I dare say it good for a Hand to be on friendly terms with the realm? If only to better serve His Grace.”  
  
It is too easy to hold back a scowl, much too simple to smile a little as Robert nods his head, obviously tired of the one-sided conversation already. But Cersei is a Lannister, her children as well, and though she knows Eddara Stark to be nothing but an honorable woman, she is also one who also holds her husband’s devotion in the palm of her manly hand.  
  
There is no cause for suspicion of Eddara Stark and her husband, but it has been with some degree of difficulty to rid herself of the youthful jealousy she felt when that other woman had arrived, bastard in tow to her wedding; her coronation witnessed by a bastard the king had looked at with a certain fondness, the praise showered on the quiet, sullen, yet oddly striking Northwoman.  
  
It was never her looks, Cersei remembers all too well-the differences between the two women were vast, and Cersei was most certainly the more beautiful. It was the tenderness she had just experienced from the king, his small token of courting her after she was told they were to be wed, that tenderness that had exploded tenfold when a woman she thought to be a man had arrived, child in arms, stealing Robert Baratheon’s affections quite absolutely, that had kindled this...dislike for the woman.  
  
“Aye, what of it, woman? Your brother’s right, old girl’s doin’ her work right.”  
  
The affection she shows him comes easy, and she picks up her goblet of wine, taking a delicate sip, watching as her golden son wisely holds his tongue about the woman. He will be a much better king, and with her father as Hand, Westeros will be restored to greatness.  
  
He comes to her that night, and Jaime after him to wash away the stain.  
  
He is dismissive, but Cersei remembers the small pause between sips. Dismissive, always dismissive, but that pause will quietly come back to him, she knows this much to be true.  
  
She may be a woman, but she is a Lannister. A lion.  
  


* * *

  
She let out a whimper as he entered her, and Ned feels almost small, delicate, pliable beneath his hands, wrapped up in his arms, his chest to her back, and it’s just so quiet in the bed (never theirs, not here, never here), and with crystal clear eyes, she watched the air float through the beams of warm sun shining through the windows.  
  
They are quiet and warm beneath the sheets, his body engulfing her own; hands cupping, caressing, mouth licking, nipping, kissing, legs a tangled with her own, and there is honestly no where else she would rather be in this moment in time. Her body arches into his own, and his pushes back, neither no longer sure where one began and the other ended, and she sweetly aches turning to meet his mouth with her own, gasping against his bearded jaw, teeth and tongue tracing incoherent patterns.  
  
Grey eyes meet blue, a warm, rather than heated, gaze between them, pupils dilated, each recognising the other within the writhing bodies they posses.  
  
Her heart feels strained almost, this incredibly intimate moment striking her aflame and by the gods, she likes it.  
  
It is not a moment she wants to leave, and yet when she peaks, instead of the blinding stars, there is a keening burn within her, a silence that stretches as she listens to her heart thump thump thumping in her ears, her breathe a silent, shuddering exhale.  
  
As her husband reaches his own completion, she tightens her legs around his, her arms holding him still within her as he breathes her name quietly into her ear, and as they lay together, entwined as one entity, Ned sinks into the silence once more.  
  
“I wish to be home.”  
  
“Aye, my love.”  
  


* * *

  
It’s been an exhausting week of celebration, this King’s Tourney, and though he feels as though he hasn’t been awake for much of it-or rather, _sober_ for much of it, Tyrion takes special care to make his way through the grounds on the last day of the jousting-he has a bet with Littlefinger, after all, and it just would not do to miss the look on the Lord’s face as he wins. He is not stupid, he has heard the superstitious gossip of betting against a Lannister, and he is quite sure his brother will win today. Jaime has been looking particularly cheerful as of late, and if there’s anything to know about his brother, it’s that there’s nothing he loves more than to walk the path to victory.  
  
And so, mindful to give himself more than enough time to reach the stands in good time lest his legs cramp up, Tyrion makes his way through the grounds, and is caught up in the excitement of it all. The excited chattering around the tents, squires old and young running back and forth, wenches and whores stumbling out into the bright mid-morning light, blinded for a moment, and resuming their way, pockets heavy.  
  
Robert has not arrived yet, and he intends on matching the king drink for drink this day-it is a gauntlet Jaime lay out for him, to which he had merely replied:  
  
“And when I outlast the king, I shall hold out my hand for the winnings you shall surely have won by then, dear brother. Don’t worry, I shall treat you to a drink.”  
  
Jaime doesn’t lose. Jaime wouldn’t lose. All would hear him roar with his lance, and none would hear Tyrion’s quiet, crowing mewl when picking up the winnings of his own. He was smart, but Tyrion Lannister was never meant to be heard, never meant to hold any sort of power. Tommen’s birth had seen to Casterly Rock being taken away from him, and even without the lad, Tyrion had seen the small chance of becoming the next Lion of the Rock slowly dwindle as the years went by, as his father continued to carry such dislike towards him. Oh, he would be given some land and hold or another, but never the Rock, no, of course not.  
  
And though still feeling the sting of this rejection, he is smart enough to know that, and to remember that this could be but a blessing-to take care of lands or stay in King’s Landing, or to travel the whole of Westeros, he had that choice, Lannister gold behind him, pushing him forward. Oh surely, he could (and most likely would) concoct some plot to weasel the Rock from Tommen’s grasp, but whoring, drinking, and worshipping those gods of sex and sin was just so...fun.  
  
By some miracle the Hand meets his eye and nods in a chillingly pleasant manner as she passes him, husband and Septa with young Bran in tow, to their seats. Lord Keith (always Keith, no matter what, Jon had taught him-though a nickname from his Riverland childhood, open to all who knew him, Lady Eddara’s steely reaction to those who would use the familiar term had silently reduced it’s users to only immediate family, and of course, the king himself) actually quirks his lips up at him, and Tyrion celebrates a little inside at this progress. Since Winterfell, he has become oddly fond of the Starks and their strange mannerisms and quirks-though most of them seem to detest him, he finds himself amused and entertained by their habits, and Lady Eddara’s refusal to be charmed by him in any way.  
  
He had not expected to see Lady Sansa and Lady Arya make their way into the stands as well, accompanied by an old Dornish woman and of course, Prince Trystane, who is being largely ignored by the two girls, heads bowed in a furious whisper. They sit within sight of the rest of their family, right before him. He leans forward a little, a feeble attempt to tilt an ear into their conversation, but it seems the girls must have formidable ears, to hear anything below a whisper in this growing crowd.  
  
“My good ladies Stark,” he announces, and the girls turn to look at him. The older, Sansa, pretty in pink, is startled, eyes wide, but recovers herself gracefully and smiles. The younger, Arya, cocks her brow at him and smirks a little at her sister’s reaction.  
  
“Lord Tyrion, you remember my sister Lady Sansa?” Arya waves a hand towards the girl, and with the most politely pleasant of turns, they nod and greet each other. “Have you made a bet on anyone, Lord Tyrion?”  
  
And suddenly he is choking back the ale he was sipping on, biting back laughter while Lady Sansa looks absolutely appalled at her younger sibling with a sharp _Arya!_  
  
“Aye, my lady, I have.” And his smile is very cordial, he thinks, for though she is just a girl still, soon to be a princess at that, he has found the Lady Arya to be quite the source of his amusement in the Stark family. Jon had spoken of his love for his younger sister, and Tyrion isn’t entirely displeased at this new addition to his House.  
  


* * *

  
Kit excused himself from his wife’s company amidst the chaos of watching Ser Jaime ride against the formidable Ser Gregor, spotting the young stable lad he had been paying with coppers to...well, not to spy, exactly, but just to keep an ear out for what was being said about Ned, and the king himself. He doesn’t like it, and Ned would probably never look at him the same again if she knew, but they were in King’s Landing now, and would be for the foreseeable future, and a little extra information couldn’t hurt, could it? At the very least, Kit could easily confess to being curious about what was said of his lady wife, and from there, he would do his best to sway or promote those opinions.  
  
Ned wasn’t the only one who wanted to prove herself.  
  
He meets the lad, Allan, close to where the army of young boys assisting in the joust stand, fresh lances at the ready should they be needed, and as the quiet boy gathers his words, Kit watches as the Mountain thunders down the line, lance unbroken, while the Kingslayer looks radiant, his own lance intact, as he turns, gaze briefly acknowledging Kit through the shaft in his helm, but quickly readying himself for the Mountain yet again.  
  
“They’s been saying summat ‘bout direwolves again, an’ you said wolves were important like, so I listened real hard, an’-” Allan says, but Kit is no longer listening. He has no need for news of his children’s pets and what they’ve been up to. So he instead keeps a wary eye on the joust, the Mountain again thundering towards them, aggressively flinging splintered lance aside at the boys and roaring for another. Allan is useful however, so Kit nods where appropriate, and fingers the copper he holds in his palm.  
  
They turn from the joust, Allan flushed with accomplishment and pride at the copper he is positively beaming at, and Kit nods down at him, ready to join his wife and child in the stands again-the joust is nearly over, and Ned doesn’t like being left alone with the possibility of being crowned again.  
  
His back stings a little, and Kit thinks on the bruises his younger daughter had left there with the side of her wooden sword. Allan is looking at him as if he has seen a ghost now, and still he does not feel it. He does not feel it when the world goes quiet around him, nor does he feel it when he turns his head as the young boy begins to run away in fright.  
  
“Oh.” He says, mouth open a little, gaping almost, at the splintered bloody lance protruding from his chest.  
  
He feels it then, feels the wet, feels the jostle as he falls to his knees, until there is no more to feel.


	16. Leading With The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'll never see your fire until you make it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should thank you all for being pretty kick-ass for taking that last chapter with such grace and aplomb. I know there's been a bit of a gap between that one and this one, and I'd like to say I'm almost done with the next, but I'm not. I'm the Maid of Honour for my sister's wedding next week, and a bunch of family is coming into town, and then there's school on TOP of that...ouch. That said, school work tends to have that muse-inspiring affect, doesn't it? ;)
> 
> Basically, I'm pretty sure I'm on the last dash to the finish line here-just haven't figured out how long, how many chapters it'll take quite yet. Anyway-enjoy! (please)

It is but a blessing and a curse, he believes, eyes no longer able to focus on the words before him. Dark wings bring dark words, and though he now has a tiny daughter to call his own, his little Aphra, he sees the sad eyes of Maester Luwin all too clearly in the doorway, parchment in hand, the reluctant bearer of grim news on such a day.   
  
No one else knows, not yet-Wynafryd remains abed with the child, and for a moment, an hour, two, Jon lets himself grieve his step-father, the man who took him and his mother as they were, who gave him sisters to care for, a young brother to partner with, advice to never part with, who loved his mother, so unlike other mothers, to become a husband and father so unlike other husbands and fathers, and oh, how Jon had loved him for it.   
  
The young boy within wants nothing more than to ride to his mother, to seek out her comfort, to give his own, but the man grown simply goes to the Sept his father had built, and prays.  
  


* * *

  
It has been near two months, and still the Lady Eddara sits morning and evening vigil for her husband, stalking down the vast corridors in black gown and headdress, haunting the Red Keep with her grief.   
  
She is not inconsolable, but nor is she Ned anymore. A senseless, stupid... _’act of the gods’_ saw to that. For when Ser Gregor broke his lance once more, too few to win against the golden Ser Jaime, and he had thrown that splintered weapon with such ferocity into the crowd of squires, it had, unknowingly to her and those watching, pierced into her husband’s back, gorging his insides with such might and anger that there was naught to be done.   
  
Nor was there anyone to know.   
  
Ned had sat alone then, Bran and his Septa having made their way back to the Red Keep, and with the most insolent grin, Ser Jaime had tossed the crown of baby’s breath into her lap, much to the applause of the smallfolk, while under the crowd’s cheers of approval, her husband knelt dying, morbidly propped up by the shattered lance protruding from his chest.   
  
It is strange, she thinks, how those she loves die before she can save them, always in a pool of scarlet blood.  
  
It is strange, she thinks, how it was Robert, he with little gift of words, who had given her strength and courage not to fall into a pit of despair.   
  
“Come on, Neddy,” he whispered, sober as Baelor himself as he held her in his arms, squeezing tight. “You can make it through this, old girl. He was a good man, aye, and he gave you plenty to remember him by. Bran’ll be a Tully through and through, and your young Robb’s the spitting image of his father.”  
  
It is strange, she thinks, how quickly in grief one can begin to see the world so clearly, the missing pieces falling gently into place as the last words of Jon Arryn echo in her mind from Maester Pycelle’s lips.   
  
_The seed is strong._   
  
And it is particularly cruel, when at a time all she wishes is to be the woman they expect her to be, she is faced with a decision all too easy to say yes to.   
  
She curls up into herself in her friend’s arms, and at once, silently both curses the gods for this loss, and thanks them for one last memory of her husband to grow inside her.   
  
The next day she sends Jory for the tome Pycelle had given her, and the day after she sends a raven to Dragonstone.   
  
It had been that look, and so many others she hadn’t quite seen properly, that horrifies her, but that also keeps her going.   
  
Stannis Baratheon replies shortly thereafter.   
  


* * *

  
With Sansa gone now, Arya finds herself at a loss of what to do. Tommen has begun to act strange around her, never mentioning her father, and she hates him for it. Robb knows something is wrong, keeps asking where father is, and Bran continues existing in the periphery, sometimes howling with his wolf and driving her up the wall.   
  
“You will have to pick up for father, Arya.” Sansa had told her the night before she and Prince Trystane had left to return to Sunspear, leaving her behind. Again “Take care of Robb and Bran and mother.”  
  
And though she knows she must, Arya doesn’t want to. She is only nine (though very nearly ten, a day father had promised they would go riding in the woods, away from King’s Landing), and she isn’t Sansa, she isn’t Jon. Arya Stark was meant for adventure, to be a princess, to not have to think on such terrible things.   
  
The king and queen look at her with pity in their eyes, as does the rest of court, she is beginning to notice. In fact, Arya is beginning to notice a lot more now than ever. She sees the stares, sees the looks to her mother, _sees_ the bump hidden beneath. What she hears is of how what a tragic accident it was, of how the best of Lady Stark died, and perhaps most bizarrely, how much they all seem to have changed their negative opinions of her mother.   
  
Arya looks to her mother each day, looking for the mother inside the Hand, but has yet to find her. They think her strong, quiet, reserved, revered. Septa says she is to leave her mother alone, to strive to be half the lady she is, to be half the mother she is, and Arya wants to scream. She isn’t her mother, nor Robb or Bran’s mama, no more.   
  
She watches as more and more, mother and that prince from Dorne, Oberyn, spend increasingly more time together. Sansa had told her he was a nice man-handsome, of course, Sansa includes, but kind as well. The more they spend time together behind closed doors, the more Arya hates him. He has many bastard girls, from what Sansa has told her, all of them _lovely_ (Prince Trystane had confided that ‘deadly’ would be a more descriptive word), and Arya wants nothing more than to beat him with a stick. Or with Needle.   
  
Arya doesn’t like him, and she is quick to notice that neither does the queen.   
  
It would be a betrayal to Sansa, to her mother as well-so she will try her best, but she wonders how long she will be able to keep her newly gilded tongue, trained by Septa to remain polite, when a woman such as the queen might be able to help her with this Dornishman.   
  


* * *

  
Father is leaving, and mother looks none too pleased about it, for, as far as she can tell (and listen in on), he will not divulge his reasons for suddenly departing to King’s Landing, when he had quite unceremoniously made them leave it with such haste before.   
  
Ser Davos is to leave with him, and Shireen is not jealous, not at all. Joffrey had been cruel when she was unable to avoid his path, and Myrcella and Tommen had looked at her with such trained repulsion, their mother’s warnings ringing in their perfect Lannister ears, that she had had even fewer friends there than at Dragonstone now.   
  
The Red La- _Melisandre_ , she corrects herself, had begun to seek her out with kind words, not once ever preaching at her like Shireen had imagined she might, and just being...nice. To _her_. It is hard to be wary when it is a person so embroiled in religion, their words so very sincere and forgiving her her faults, and Shireen is quite sure that had father not sent for her to accompany him to King’s Landing, she would have quite enjoyed spending time with the beautiful priestess.   
  
As it is, however, she is to attend cousin Joffrey’s wedding to that Tyrell girl, Margaery. It is to be in the next year, waiting for Lady Margaery to turn seventeen as well, and as his heir, her father had told her, she is to meet them, treat with them, and then know who she is to honour and obey in her eventual rule of Dragonstone.   
  
She thinks this to mean that she needs to make Joffrey like her so he will be a kind king, but Shireen knows that could never ever, _ever_ happen. For Joffrey was not kind, and though family, she knew he did not have to be-as family, he only had to be loyal to their house, and it is this Shireen clings to, hopes that he will one day think her his house as well, despite her terror-filled memories of a young Joffrey chasing her down the empty halls, _roar_ ing at her with such might.   
  
Mother, of course, is not pleased, and watches them leave with such a stern look, Shireen was sure she could bend steel.   
  
She’s not sure what she was expecting, meeting this infamous Lady Hand Stark who greets them beside her uncle Robert in the Great Hall, but she can see the subtle shift in her father’s gaze at the small, yet pronounced, pregnant belly, as if he were not expecting it.   
  
Lady Eddara is not the most comely of women, but Shireen finds herself entranced by the Lady Hand, draped in black, dark hair pulled back beneath a dark headdress, wisps escaping to frame her strong, stern face, her grey eyes solemn, hiding from the world around her.   
  
Joffrey hasn’t much changed, but now he just ignores her with a sneer, much like everyone else in the Red Keep. Margaery gives her small, pitying smiles (which feels worse, almost), but it is Lady Eddara’s son, Robb, who she likes the most (Lady Arya is...interesting, but aggressive).   
  
At just four years, he had trotted up to her once her father had dismissed her presence, once the crowds had dispersed, a massive....creature by his side, and craned his neck to look up to her. Shireen tried not to move, tried not to breathe, the animal making her uneasy, but reminds herself to stand tall, to be a mighty stag like her father, her uncles.   
  
“Does it come off?” He had piped up at her, and unwittingly her hand reaches up to cover her marred skin and neck.   
  
“No, it does not.”  
  
Robb frowns, scrunches his little freckled nose and little pink lips, and his little russet curls shine in the light, bouncing a little in the motion. Finally, he shrugs, and Shireen gasps in surprise as the creature nudges her side with it’s nose.   
  
“Okay. This is Grey Wind. I’m Robb Stark.” He says proudly-as proud as a little boy can be, really.  
  
“I...I am Lady Shireen Baratheon.” She returns with equal pride, trying not to let her mirth show lest she embarrass him.  
  
“You can stroke him, if you want.” He blurts out, and gently gently, Shireen lays a hand on Grey Wind, hand sinking into the thick fur. He is softer than she thought, she says. Robb just nods and grins, and Shireen finds herself following him as he chatters their way down the hall, finding herself lead to the stables, to where Grey Wind sleeps at night.   
  
Though Shireen had never thought a marriage of hers to be in any way easy or nice, she had long resigned herself to the hard truth that men were cruel and kind to beauty only.   
  
Little Robb Stark, in just five minutes of meeting her, has quite set the bar on what Shireen Baratheon now _expects_. For if a boy of four could become her most beloved fan, ignoring, but not recoiling from her disfigured face, and then stomp his foot in childish annoyance at his sister being able to run faster than he, Shireen lets herself believe once again that a man grown should be able to, too.   
  


* * *

  
It is the first time Ned has shed her black shield since her husband’s death, but already she knows the smallfolk seeing Oberyn Martell and Stannis Baratheon walking about the streets of King’s Landing is a sight enough to attract unwanted attention, but the pregnant Lady Hand with them? She is recognisable, Oberyn dark and handsome, and Stannis the stern, eerie image of his brother the king.   
  
And so instead they see Oberyn Martell escorting a lightly pregnant lady on a horse, a hooded figure trailing behind them.   
  
She is not sure what to feel in such a situation. Ridiculous, surely. And though Stannis had seemed to greet her with a stern admonition upon seeing her with child, eyes darting between her and Robert, jaw clenching, it had been the Lord Tyrion’s inquiry on her late husband’s child that had soothed Stannis’s jaw, but for a moment.   
  
The queen had remained quiet, and Prince Joffrey made a veiled comment on the timing and ‘luck’ of it all, while Ned had merely smiled a little, thanking him for his words-her husband had taught her well, and since that moment, she had made sure to pick up the slack. She is still shaky, but carries herself with a more confident air-it is easy, she thinks, when there is that empty, blank emotion hiding inside oneself, to no longer care for being shy, demure.   
  
The three are making their way through the brothels, the alehouses, the homes again-those of Robert’s bastard children. She had vomited when the pieces had _click_ ed together in her mind, the implications of Cersei’s treachery making her ill. And though Stannis had already been convinced, he staunchly believed it not be he who told Robert their findings, for it to be someone he loved like a sister. For it to be Ned.   
  
Oberyn, however, needed to see the evidence beyond her solemn speculations. He had been almost glued to her side since the tourney, patiently listening to her theories, to the children she had seen, the last words of Jon Arryn, the giant tome of Westerosi Ancestry that could only point in one direction. She would never mention Ser Gregor, who had been sent away, back to his Keep by the queen, though her stillness would speak volumes.   
  
The babes she had visited when she had first arrived at King’s Landing were now little children tottering about, looking like little dopplegangers of their sire, and yet all three agreed it was not the proof they needed.   
  
Stepping into the muggy wall of heat at Tobho Mott’s Blacksmith, however, had revealed a boy grown so like Robert, more so than Renly, even, that all three agreed they had the proof needed.   
  
Standing in her solar, Ned looked down at the men sitting before her, feeling more like a Hand than she ever had before.   
  
“You will speak nothing of this. You will leave this to me until I see fit to bring either of you back into my confidence. The less people know what I am about to do, the better, the easier it will be to proclaim innocence.”  
  
Obediently, they both nod.   
  
“This is a dangerous path we begin on, my lords.” Ned pauses, bites her lip. “I only ask of you, should anything go awry, is for my children, my House, to be looked after in the manner according them. I know the Martells have developed an affection for my daughter, only a few years away from entering marriage with your nephew, Prince Oberyn. I would hope that might extend to my daughter Arya.”  
  
The dark haired prince nodded gravely, a glint in his eye. “Of course, my lady. Dorne stands behind the North and the Starks.”  
  
Stannis’s brows twitch at this slight of phrase, the Dornishman proclaiming his support to the North as well as the Starks, but nothing is said as she turns to him.   
  
“And I have been told that my son Robb has a great fondness for your daughter, Lord Stannis. It would be a great comfort for me to know he would be in the company of such a fine lady as that of Lady Shireen, much like his brother.”  
  
And for once Stannis’s jaw does not seem to grind. Both men know what she is doing, what she is risking, already arranging for her children’s care. Though she is taking on this gargantuan task most might think only capable of men, they still look at her like a woman weak, and as such, only see the mother she has not been since her husband’s passing, overly protective of her babes.   
  
Perhaps they are right, she thinks after they have left, perhaps she is not as in control of her life as she wanted to be. Perhaps she is still the grieving widow, understandably protective of her kin after such loss.   
  
Perhaps.   
  
Or perhaps Ned Stark, who had always thought herself to be so pragmatic, so just, a woman of honour, had become softened with motherhood and marriage. And perhaps it is this loss, so unfair and unjust, so cruel. Perhaps it is this that has again caused her to remember the world she thought she knew as a girl sent away from her home to be fostered while her young sister blossomed in the winter’s cold-that the world was a cruel, terrible place, and that she should not expect the true love of song, the soft caress of a lover, the shriek of a happy child.   
  
She had Balon Greyjoy to thank for this change of view, his attempt at rebellion bringing her forth to meet the Southron lad who quite effectively proved her wrong, easily shattering through her established world belief.   
  


* * *

  
She watched the men leave, going their separate ways, and after a few minutes of waiting quietly, waiting to make her move without being seen, Arya silently makes her way into her mother’s rooms.   
  
Tommen had been rotten that day, and she no longer has Sansa to complain to, so she resorts to her mother, hoping she is still her mother, no longer the Hand.   
  
She did not expect to be so quickly engulfed in a warm embrace, a _mother’s_ arms wrapped around her, breathing her in with a sigh, and bringing her down to lay on the bed next to her.   
  
“Mother, I-” she begins, but is cut off.   
  
“Shh, kidlet, shh.” And it has been ever so long since she’s been called ‘kidlet’, and much to her surprise she finds herself crying a little.   
  
“I miss him, mother.” She whispers, and just like that, the arms squeeze tighter, as if pouring love and life into her. Arya has missed these hugs. “I miss Sansa and Jon and Wynafryd, too.”  
  
“Aye, kidlet. Me too.” Mother whispers back, and Arya reaches for her hand, reflexively weaving their fingers together, her tiny digits warmly drowning between her mother’s roughened fingers, large and weary.   
  
“I’m sorry, kidlet.”  
  
Arya wants to ask why, for what, but Arya knows better now, having passed her tenth nameday with no fancy dress from mother, and only a scattered applause from her audience when she displayed her water dancing. She will be a woman grown soon, and a princess to boot-if she, as Septa keeps reminding her, to think her mother’s words, she would know the meaning, know the intention.   
  
In response she squeezes her fingers tighter, kissing her mother’s hand.   
  
She won’t be her mother like this forever, and so Arya holds on tight for as long as she is able.   
  


* * *

  
“It is a bold move to make, Lady Stark.” He drawls, waddling his way into her sight.   
  
She doesn’t scowl, doesn’t even twitch in the annoyance he is so accustomed to see from her.   
  
“The Small Council supported my cause that was just, Lord Tyrion.” She says, voice smooth. “And that is all I have to say on the matter.”  
  
“Oh, indeed, Lady Stark, indeed. Though I wonder- _why_ exactly would Robert believe this beneficial to him? You are close to starting another Blackfyre collision, my lady.” He replies, voice dry and with a touch of innocence he knows no one believes for more than a second-it is that second that he relies on, his opponents’ dropping their guards just for a moment could show him a wealth of knowledge.   
  
A wealth of knowledge, it seems, Lady Stark is unwilling to share. She had become remarkably shrewd since Lord Keith’s untimely death. He had at first thought it to be vacancy, had wanted to go to Robert to urge him to let her go home, back to her son, but the unexpected arrival of Stannis, and her unlikely pairing with Prince Oberyn had kept his mouth shut.   
  
Their traipsing about the city had piqued his interest however, and Tyrion felt this close to solving this puzzle the Lady Stark was holding close to her chest, to her unborn child.   
  
“Naming the blacksmith boy a legitimate child to the King Robert Baratheon?” Her teeth grit a little, and despite this meaning that her guard is crumbling but a little, Tyrion wants to dance for joy at his friend’s mother’s emotional response, her emotional anything, rather.   
  
“It is doing the boy, and the other children, a kindness.” She says, staring down at him, arms firmly by her side.   
  
“Ah yes,” he counters, raising a finger up to make his point. “legitimising a bastard boy of the king, who is not only older than the crown prince, but looks more his sire than the royal heir? Never has a truer kindness been given, my lady.”  
  
She closes her eyes then, and Tyrion fears he may be in for a slap. As she opens them again, he sees the sadness in them, the grief and loneliness in the slate grey. Slowly, she bends to his level, her tall, solid frame almost creaking with the effort, her swollen belly only just in the way.   
  
“My lord, after having watched my own children lose their father, I could think of naught else but to not have these innocent children deprived of one themselves. By legitimising them, I not only give them a father to know, but also another parent to care. I have thought this through,” she pleads, “and I truly believe that by having these children made true to Robert, yet out of the royal line, that they will lead better lives for it.”  
  
And she looks so compassionate, that Tyrion almost believes it. She is lying to him, and badly. She may have learned a great deal from that husband of hers, but Lady Stark, much like all the Starks, it seemed, could not lie to save her life.   
  
“A truly honourable cause, my lady,” he concedes instead, taking her hand in his and laying a feathery kiss on it, quickly glancing up at her barely concealed inner turmoil at what he now knows for certain _is_ a lie.   
  
A lie he’s not sure if he’d rather watch play out, or unravel before she had the chance.


	17. Red Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no words, no song-you can dance the dream with your body. 
> 
> Can’t stop dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, sorry for the delay! It’s been a while, and I won’t bored you with details excusing me that you probably won’t even read, so yeah. Sorry about that.

They visit him in the blacksmith’s by the stables, this new brother of Tommen’s, who looks so unlike the royal children, who is so...large and strong that Arya decides she is to have another Baratheon child to have on her side, should she need it. Tommen has shot up in height, and though strong and much better with a sword than he used to be, he is still slight, and with his golden curls and softly round face, he is not as able to intimidate as she imagines his half-brother, Gendry, can.  
  
They hide behind a bale of hay, watching him from a distance as Tommen hesitates. He’s not meant to be here, he protests, his queen mother strictly forbidding her children from interacting with the recently promoted bastards, and Arya just rolls her eyes. Her favourite brother (to be fair to Robb and Bran, she’s known Jon the longest) used to be bastard, and she tells Tommen as much.  
  
“Truly? Jon was a bastard?” He asks, a little awed that the larger, friendly boy he had met those few years ago had been a bastard and now a Lord, and Arya nods emphatically, absently wondering how that particular about her family had passed over his princely head, especially with Queen Cersei disliking her mother so much.    
  
“Yes, he _was_ until mother legitimised him. And even if she hadn’t, he’d still be my favourite brother.” She proclaims proudly, and luckily, this works for Tommen, who nods and begins to make his way over to his new half-brother.  
  
It doesn’t seem to go as well as one would want, but, as Tommen reports back to Arya, the blacksmith brother was polite, if not a little scared of interacting with his royal siblings.  
  
“That’s stupid.” She says, and it is, really. What’s there to be scared of? “Bring your kittens with you next time, Tommen.”  
  
But Tommen screws up his nose at this, seemingly affronted at the idea, and rolls his eyes, shaking his head. Arya looks away from the blacksmith brother, and realises with a start that Tommen, this Tommen, is no longer the boy who came to Winterfell, proclaiming beets to be the worst root vegetable in all the lands. No, she thinks, really looking at him, he is not that at all.  
  
He is not like his blacksmith brother, broad and burly, but he is tall, and Arya remembers the first time he very nearly beat her sparring, how startled she was at his strength. Without his kittens, mayhaps even without _her_ around, he is Prince Tommen Baratheon, second in line to the Iron Throne.  
  
And mainly because she had heard Sansa talk of it so bloody often, had seen her parents cherish and lean into each and every one, Arya leans up and kisses him on the cheek.  
  
He doesn’t push her away or act like it was the worst thing in the world, but she blushes anyway, looking away and concentrating on Tommen’s new brother, who looks so very uncomfortable, working there in the palace blacksmith.  
  
She hadn’t realised that _kissing_ would be so...intimate. It’s rather scary, really.  
  
“Maybe we’ll try again tomorrow,” she finally suggests, anything to draw away from what she just did. “He looks stupid, but he could be a good friend, Tommen.” And with her last ounce of bravery, she looks to him, and he grins a little, looking ever the lion, teeth bared and gleaming.  
  
Arya decides she has severely underestimated Tommen Baratheon.  
  


* * *

  
“But _why_?” He whines, and Grey Wind whines alongside him a little while she purses her lips in a slight frown.  
  
“Robb, Edric is a very nice boy-and now that...the rest of King Robert’s bastard children have been recognised, he has decided to come visit and make their acquaintance.”  
  
Robb, however, does not look appeased by this explanation, and Shireen bites back a sigh of frustration. Ever since her arrival at King’s Landing, the young Stark boy had seemed to latch onto her skirts, praising her friendship, and very often, becoming a mite possessive should she wish to talk to others (who actually wanted to talk back, that is). It’s not that she cannot understand-oh no, Shireen completely believes the same trait to be true to herself, had someone, _anyone_ come to Dragonstone and showed an ounce of interest or kindness in her when she was a young girl many were beginning to see had little chance of a striking young woman, of bringing promise to this illustrious House Baratheon.  
  
“He’s nice, and-”  
  
“And a bastard with Florent ears, cousin.” Snaps a hard voice from behind them. Joffrey. Shireen stiffens, and turns, and Robb scowls a little, though unsure as to what he is scowling for.  
  
“I didn’t think Florent ears could deter from one’s kindness, my prince.” She says, dipping into a curtsey, Florent ears of her own burning in shame. With a look Robb quickly follows her into a curtsey, luckily still young enough to be excused for his actions. Joffrey, just rolls his eyes, and much to her surprise, doesn’t even laugh at the glaring mistake.  
  
Maybe he has grown?  
  
“Is that how they show respect in the North, Stark? Curtseying like a weak woman like your stupid mother?”  
  
Well, one had hope.  
  
“Mama is not weak! She is the Queen of the North, and you’re stupid!” Robb hotly protests, looking upset, grabbing a small fistful of her skirts in comfort, his other hand reaching out for a patch of Grey Wind’s thick fur at the scruff of the direwolves’ lowered neck.  
  
Joffrey, however, looks even more upset at the little lord’s proclamation, his bright emerald eyes hard and stony, and looks like he is about to raise his arm to strike Robb, moving forward with such intention that before Shireen can even move a foot to step forward in defense of the young boy, Grey Wind is in front of them both, large and hackles raised and snarling with such fervor that the golden prince stumbles back a bit in fright.  
  
She bites back a giggle, however, when the Queen glides up to them, eye gleaming and mouth soft.  
  
“Shireen, my love-is the young Robb bothering you and Joff?” She queries, voice soft. And just as Shireen opens her mouth to speak, Joffrey turns to her, looking ever the picture of innocence.  
  
“He just came out of nowhere, mother. Shireen and I were having a lovely talk about our childhoods together, and how much thought I’ve been putting into finding a husband for her when I am king.”  
  
“Oh, my darling prince-how kind of you. Shireen, isn’t that exquisite?”  
  
“Very kind, your grace.” She says softly with a curtsey. Shireen isn’t stupid, no matter what her cousin thinks, and Shireen knows how to choose her battles, knows that the Queen is not someone to trifle with.  
  
“I can marry her!” Robb pipes up from beside her, even thrusting his hand into the air, breaking the tension, and oh, how her aunt Cersei can _laugh_ so convincingly, with such charm and grace, that for a moment even Shireen begins to believe her.  
  
“We can live in Winterfell with Robb and Wynafryd, and play, and-”  
  
“Are you truly that stupid?” Joffrey sneers.  
  
“Now now, my love.” the Queen purrs, soothing the prince. She leans down a little to Robb, meeting him eye to eye. “That is very kind of you, my sweet lord. But I fear you shall have to ask Shireen’s lord father, and he’d have to talk to your...dear mother. Or do they talk a lot already, poppet?” She lightly asks, tilting her head in question as if she ought to know the answer herself.  
  
Robb, for his part, just shakes his little head, and Cersei’s smile falters a touch.  
  
When they’re out of earshot, Joffrey whisked away and Robb warned not to touch Shireen’s greyscale (gods, but she feels weak here, no longer the girl grown in Dragonstone, but so easily reduced to a young, shy girl within the presence of her beautiful relatives), Robb does just that.  
  
They’re sitting in a window seat in the Tower of the Hand, and gods be damned, but she can’t seem to control the shameful, angry tears. And little Robb, so sweet and kind already, leans up, wiping them away, and Grey Wind’s resting his head on her lap, whining a little, and with a resolute sniffle, she manages to stop, and smiles at her young charge.  
  
“Shireen?” He asks, voice small.  
  
“Yes, Robb?”  
  
“I meant it. You’re really nice-nicer than Arya and she’s my sister, and Bran is boring, so we can get married, you know.”  
  
And she genuinely can’t help but snort out her amusement at the situation.  
  
“Robb...you’re too young to be married. You’re still a boy, you realise. And I will be far too old when you are of age.”  
  
He doesn’t pout, though. Just asks why. Shireen belatedly, weakly wonders where his lady mother is, where his Septa is, and with one last look about them to find nothing, sighs.  
  
“One day, Robb-you will marry a beautiful lady, and take care of lands for your brother-”  
  
“Jon! His name is Jon.”  
  
“Yes, Jon.” She amends. “You will take care of lands up North for him, and take a beautiful wife, and-”  
  
“But what about you? Will you have a husband? You can stay with us! Grey Wind won’t mind.” He chirps, and Grey Wind grumbles appropriately. Shireen just shakes her head.  
  
“I, Robb, will come and visit you and we can play together then, ok?”  
  
“Ok.” He concedes, and curls into her side, laying his head on her lap, pulling her hand to play with his hair. Twisting and twining her fingers through his growing russet curls, she leans back against the wall and closes her eyes.  
  
Father had, quite out of the blue the other night at dinner, asked her how she was getting along with ‘the Stark boy’ (which she took to mean Robb), and in her surprise at the unexpected question, had answered in the affirmative.  
  
“Good, then.” He had said, and it was back to the regular silence at the dinner table between them. Two words may not mean much to many, but two words coming from father, one of which was ‘good’, surely meant something.  
  
It bothered her.  
  


* * *

  
He _had_ said she would be furious, and Ned hadn’t argued with him about it.  
  
What she hadn’t realised was that Cersei Lannister, suspected cuckolder (more than suspected, though), would actually be angry enough to seek her out.  
  
(After she would leave, Ned would think on how her husband would have been able to predict such an action, and after sitting before the window, would again start to spiral into that endless trail of self-doubt, anger, and loss.)  
  
She’s actually spitting her words now, and bitterly, Ned thinks on how justified Robert must feel when he strikes his beautiful Queen.  
  
“It’s quite enough that a bastard is running the North, but-” And Ned sees red. Everywhere. She hears it after, her hand stinging, and both women look at each other in astonishment, mouths agape for a second before the Queen backhands her, heavy rings ripping skin, leaving her stumbling a bit-this pregnancy had never been easy, but the babe had recently been testing her centre of balance, kicking and growing so.  
  
They continue to stare at each other, Cersei’s beautiful complexion marred by a pink, reddening hand print on her cheek, and Ned can feel trickles of blood falling down her own, dripping down her neck, into the black neckline of her dress.  
  
“Your pardons, your grace.” She finally says, barely dipping into a curtsey, wiping the red from her broken lip, and oh, Cersei just looks at her with murder in her eyes.  
  
“That’s enough of that, I should think.” A deep voice growls from the doorway, and both women whip their heads around to see none other than Robert Baratheon, standing tall, proud, fat, and looking positively furious.  
  
Ours is the fury, indeed.  
  
The Queen, for her part, does not back down, leaves the room with her head held high, proud as the lioness she is, leaving the two friends, the King and his Hand, to talk.  
  
Robert, for his part, doesn’t say a word until she leaves, and Ned’s not quite sure who he’s more angry at. It should be her, really-for to him, Cersei has really done nothing wrong, and having his bastards known to the Kingdom, flaunted before her, even brought in to work in the Red Keep, well...for all her talk of wishing all children to know their fathers, Ned sometimes wishes she hadn’t gone through with this.  
  
“Neddy, old girl...” Is all he can seem to say, slumping into her husband’s seat, waving her to do the same opposite. “We’ve really done it this time, eh? Cersei’s not bloody happy, Kingslayer’s not bloody happy, Tywin Lannister’s not bloody happy.”  
  
He huffs, and looks out into the distance, out the window, almost wistfully.  
  
“Your grace?”  
  
“There’s a way to undo this, Ned.” He finally says, and looks to her, face stern, to not be argued with. “And you’re to find it. Tywin Lannister’s got too much control over my purse strings, and I think you went too far with this, Ned.”  
  
Without thinking, she bites her lip to keep silent, but almost yelps in the process regardless, the wound still fresh and sore. Grimly, she nods.  
  
“I’m going off hunting.” He announces. “It’ll be done by then.”  
  
And then he’s gone.  
  
And she knows what needs to be done.  
  


* * *

  
It’s only the next day when Shireen Baratheon, the young lady Robb has taken to with such affection, takes a tumble down a particularly nasty staircase, sleeping, and unable to be woken.  
  
Robb is in a fit of hysterics, and Grey Wind is howling with him, loud and pitiful, scratching at the door keeping them away from Shireen’s sleeping body. Her arm is broken, Pycelle informs her, and other than him unable to rouse her, he sees nothing wrong with the girl.  
  
Stannis, being Stannis, purses his lips tight together, and she can see the accusation in his eyes, the glimmer of worry in his cold blue eyes, the ‘why aren’t you doing anything?’ glaring at her, doubting her ability, unsure about his own lineage, uncomfortable at the tugging on his stern arm from the young Robb, wishing for some form of paternal comfort.  
  
It is only when Ned sees again, remembers that _look_ -the one that only belonged to lovers, she realises, painfully reminiscing over the looks she still had in her dreams, dreams of love and warmth and the cool, cool air of home.  
  
The Queen is arrested the next day, yelling, howling, screeching while being dragged into a suitable cell. The Kingslayer, Ned takes care of herself, sword drawn and snarling, his emerald eyes gleaming, taunting.  
  
“How am I to defend myself against a pregnant widow, Stark? It seems hardly fair.” He drawls as their blades clash, singing together, and it is only when she turns, swirling to avoid a blow to the neck, that he is able to nick her, a long trail of scarred, sliced flesh down her thigh, much too close to the babe for her comfort, but there it is-ever since he died, everything’s been much too close to her children, she thinks, staggering onto her knees, watching with a cruel smirk as her own blow rid the disgraced knight of his hand, his rose tinted sword clattering to the ground.  
  
He howls much like his sister as he is dragged away, and Ned is barely cleaned up and put onto bed rest when Robert storms into her room, Stannis close behind, painfully looking away from her state of undress.  
  
“What is this, Ned? What in the fucking crone’s _name_ are you doing?”  
  
She wants to howl, much like his wife and her blasphemous brother did-how could he not see it?  
  
“I arrested your Queen, your grace.” She bites out, breathing through the pain in her leg-Pycelle had refused her milk of the poppy because of her child, and it had been a deep, treacherous wound.  
  
“I can see that, Eddara!” he thunders from the foot of her bed, eyes barely glancing over her injured leg.  
  
“Your Queen and her brother have been cuckolding you for years, Robert-all three of the Royal children have been born of...born of her twin brother,” she spits out, disgusted. “and I had the two arrested for treason.”  
  
And just like that, his shoulder sag. Ned almost feels sorry for her friend, so full of love for those he chose to give it to, and yet so disregarded by those who needed it the most.  
  
“The children have been placed under my care,” she continues quietly, “Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen will remain in the Tower of the Hand until the Small Council can figure out what to do with them. I’m sorry, Robert.”  
  
And he’s silent, this large, terrifying friend of hers, barely muddied from the hunt her actions pulled him away from, his crown askew on his royal head, his Baratheon blue eyes staring into hers, never looking away. There’s so much she wants to tell him, to let him know how long this deception had been going on, but Robert was still a King, and a proud one at that.  
  
Stannis could say it instead, she figured, having no fear of his brother’s love and anger.  
  
“Well,” He finally chokes out. “this worked out well, didn’t it?”  
  
She looks to Stannis and back to Robert, nodding.  
  
“I...yes, Robert. It did. And you still have children, the bastard children we legitimised-your reign as Baratheon King will continue, and the Lannister bastards can be sent back, and Tywin won’t be happy, but at least we’ve got the-” But gods be great, she’s said too much-she can see as much on his face, his brother’s face, normally so impassive, a slate to be guessed at, and-  
  
He doesn’t explode. He does not yell. He doesn’t say a word. But as he storms out of the room, Stannis trailing behind him, she can hear his roars, knows she is about to be arrested herself.  
  
“ **My** Hand! _MY HAND_!” He yells, and as they continue to walk farther and farther away, she hears words of betrayal and loyalty and plotting behind his back, and being made a fool of, and her heart clenches up tight as she whimpers at the throbbing in her leg, her head, the child kicking at her within, the heat, oh gods, but the heat.  
  


* * *

  
The heat was terrifying, but he hobbled onwards, always onwards-and should he not be used to such heat by now? It had been long enough, but the sweat would not stop, it seemed.  
  
Ah, well. A way to feel more alive, he supposes, a way to feel the heart pounding when not fucking some girl, to feel the fresh air instead of the stale, musty air his rooms generated when the curtains were not pulled back in the morning.  
  
He watched as they emerged from the dust, hooves pounding in the dry, dry dirt, flying everywhere, the sound of thunder in the clear blue sky.  
  
“Princess,” He bows respectfully as she stands slight before him, but just barely-he is not the young man he once was, after all. “News from King's Landing, my princess.”  
  
“ _Khaleesi_. Not princess.”


	18. Learn Your Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowzers, it's been a while. Thanks for not giving up on this, you guys-I really appreciate it. Please know I've got this planned out, I've just been having a hard time writing it out and feeling comfortable with the end product.

It’s been five long days since she’s been arrested, and three since Robert had her actually assigned a cell, placed firmly between the Queen and her treasonous brother, who jeers at her, still delirious with the loss of his hand.  
  
“Stuck in the black cells with my sweet sister and the Lady of the North. Who knew _I’d_ be the most honorable of the lot?” He rambles, groaning into himself, curling into his curdling stump of an arm. “Bastards, bastards everywhere I look.”  
  
“ _Jaime_.” The Queen snaps, a warning on her lips, his name, and though he continues to smile, to give Ned knowing, haughty looks whenever she too winces at her wounded leg, he is quiet once more.   
  


* * *

  
It’s been five long days since he’s had word of his mother’s arrest, and Jon Stark is about to march down there himself to rescue her.   
  
“She’s _pregnant_ ,” he snarls, anger seething from within, this King he was brought up to affectionately call ‘uncle’, closer to his mother than his own brothers, his own _blood_ , and this was how he treated her? Luwin and Rodrik are barely able to hold him back from calling the North together to march on King’s Landing, to release his mother and house, to bring his family back _home_. “She is the _Hand_.”  
  
“My lord, calm yourself,” Wynafryd ends up snapping at him, though she had been agreeing with him not just moments before. “You have a duty to the North, to your house now-you cannot throw that all aside to go running down to King’s Landing.”  
  
“My mother-” He begins, but with her free hand not holding little Aphra, so sweet and sleeping, she squeezes his hand, stopping him from saying more.  
  
“Your mother has been arrested. That leaves you to rule now. You cannot leave Winterfell, you cannot leave your daughter and wife behind.”  
  
“But my mother-”  
  
“Is innocent. Clearly.” She says, cutting off his protests once again, and he looks at her, confused. She cups her hand on his cheek  “No matter what she did, your mother is probably the most loyal lady in the whole of Westeros-she would never have done something she did not deem honest and right.”  
  
She’s right, he knows, but he’s already lost a father-he cannot just stand by and do nothing while his mother is holed up and locked away.   
  
“Close the borders, Jon.” Wynafryd says, voice soft, angry, determined. “Ride down to them with your bannermen. Keep the North safe, but show your anger at this injustice. He may be King, but you are Lord Stark, and you have the North. Your mother is enough loved to excuse more than a few good men making it past our lines and into the South, into King’s Landing. It wouldn’t be your fault.”  
  
And though he feels there might come to a time to regret such actions, his only regret now is that he had not thought of it himself.   
  
The Riverlands join him, his father’s memory and death a wound still fresh for the ailing Hoster Tully, and Edmure, in his stead, steps forward. In quiet conversation he tells Jon of his reservations of his brother wedding the North, but that Gregor Clegane was responsible for his death (“ _murder_ ,” he spits), and the Lannisters, the crown, were doing nothing to keep the Mountain from terrorising his lands.    
  
They call him the King of the North, the Mormonts crow, and soon the rest of them join in, all united in their wish for their Lady to return, their anger at the crown, secession the only acceptable answer to them.   
  


* * *

  
The Queen is taken away first, and Ned watches with a bowed head as she howls for her brother, her _lover_ through the bars, how in return he is silent, tense, still.   
  
She hadn’t realised how quiet it could truly be in the dark, Jaime Lannister suddenly at a loss for words, his sister’s cries echoing down the stone hall until her voice fades away to nothing. It isn’t until the babe kicks and kicks and kicks that she lets out a small gasp, her hand resting on the large swell-so grown since her incarceration, that the floor of her cell, though filthy, becomes comfortable.   
  
The disgraced knight looks over then, dirty, disheveled, a damp golden brown away from his former glory.   
  
“Try not to give birth yet, Stark. I’d rather not have a squalling babe be my last memory of this...place.” He says, voice dry, hard and controlled. She narrows her eyes at him, and sighs, leaning her head back against the wall, rubbing, soothing the babe within, thinking on the rest of her children, forcing herself to believe in Oberyn and Stannis’s words, that they’d care for them.   
  
She is past the point of panicking now, has resigned herself to this after so long in the dark, that when Jaime is taken away with a grin and a cocksure wave, and she is left alone, sat in the dark, she can almost forget what has been done, can imagine her husband sitting by her side, her hand in his, her head on his broad shoulder.   
  
The world is quiet here.   
  


* * *

  
The crowds in King’s Landing were roaring with scandal, and Arya, her hair freshly shorn, hand in Tommen’s (she couldn’t just leave him behind, could she? Myrcella has refused to leave the tower, but as soon as her mother was taken, Arya _knew_ what she had to do), his now mud brown hair also cropped of it’s golden curls, as they navigate their way through the rowdy streets, darting this way and that to avoid the palace guards looking for them.   
  
Though they are just two street urchins now, Tommen has almost been recognised one too many times, and at night, they have to listen to Nymeria whining to the moon, locked away in the Red Keep as her mistress tries to get away, to get home.   
  
She watches him sleep-they take shifts, sleeping in empty doorways and damp alleys, borrowing clean sheets hanging out of windows for warmth, and replacing them at dawn, dirty, much to their owner’s confusion.   
  
He had cried when they watched his mother answer to her crimes against the crown, the golden Queen stripped of her beauty, sent to be a Silent Sister after a demeaning walk of redemption, the King looking on with cold anger in his eyes that it scares her a little, makes her grab for Tommen’s hand in comfort for them both.   
  
Stannis almost recognises _her_ , and that is when she tugs them away, disappearing into the crowd with her sad friend.   
  
She expected it to be worse when it is announced that Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, is to be beheaded, but Tommen looks on at his-his uncle with a stoney face, looking ever the Baratheon, so much like the King in the moment the great sword sings through the air, and her breath catches as she watches.   
  
They hide amongst a band of merchants headed to the Riverlands, smuggling their way out, and they stick together, steadfast, following the men on the horses, the horses and carts, keeping out of sight, out of mind, out of as much trouble as possible.   
  
“We’ll find my father’s Keep, and we’ll send word to my brother from there. And then we’ll get my mother out.” She repeats, to herself as much as to him, day after day of trudging through the woods, her hand on the pommel of a hastily found Needle, to assure herself of her words. Jon would help them, he _had_ to. Sansa would be safe, and though she gnaws at her lip over Robb and Bran, she tells herself that Tommen _had_ to be escaped, _had_ to be gone before the King and his brother could do anything.   
  
At night she dreams she is back in the Red Keep, back in King’s Landing, surrounded by her brother wolves, all howling to the moon, desperate for a way out, a way to reach her. It’s incoherent, and Tommen almost always ends up gently shaking her out of it, his face grim.   
  
“ _Up_ , Arya. They’re all waking, we need to get ready to move.”  
  
She opens her eyes to the sunlight, wondering how much distance was now between them and King’s Landing, wonders if it’ll ever be enough, allows her doubts to get the better of her. She grimaces up at him, thinks hard on what they can use to darken his hair again, the stubborn Lannister gold beginning to shine through again.   
  
“You washed your hair again, didn’t you?” She asks, already knowing the answer, and having it confirmed by his flushed ears. “You know you’re not supposed to do that! Your hair’s too bloody _blond_!” She hisses, and he looks away, kicking a fallen branch.   
  
Bloody. _Useless_.   
  


* * *

  
He asks her if his mama is going to die, and she gulps.   
  
“She might. I don’t know, pup.” She finally says, unable to lie, unable to know herself the fate of his mama, her father giving nothing up, the court’s regular gossip mill being of little use as of late as well; all they talk about is the King’s health, his raging moods, and for Robb’s sake, Shireen finds herself praying to the gods, and absolutely insisting on Grey Wind being with his little master at all times, no matter what the company.   
  
Little Bran won’t stop crying, and it makes Shireen want to cry herself. The King had had her beautiful cousins locked away, his Queen shamed and sent to the Silent Sisters, and his very own ‘Kingslayer’ beheaded before an unsure, quiet crowd, and it was only because of the council’s coercion that allowed the young Stark boys to be placed under her father’s care.   
  
The young Stark boys who ask and wail for their mama, who howl and beg and are restless; Robb is particularly outspoken, and his baby brother quietly whimpers, staring at her with those wide blue eyes.   
  
It’s a star-filled night when she creeps out of her rooms, Bran heavy in her arms, on the cusp of sleep, that she comes upon the whispers most useful to her.   
  
They speak of wolves swimming under the cover of night, and Shireen looks at the Tully-looking Stark in her arms, head resting peacefully on her shoulder in the cool breeze of the dark that makes her skin goosebump. They hush about the angry old lion, about the fury that runs in her family, about even, her.   
  
She stiffens at that, holds in her gasp of being the topic of interest, and clears her mind of fear to pay attention.   
  
“...lost the girl, and there is no love lost between him and His Grace’s brother. The new heir holds the remaining wolves in her palms, and thus, all the pieces.”  
  
“It would be a grief to all should those scars and greyscale extend beyond her father’s face.”  
  
“Mm. Quite.”  
  
The little lord doesn’t stir until she’s safely tucked him into his blankets next to his brother, his little mouth yawning into the still air, and Shireen sits, stuck in silence and staring into the dying fire of the room, the direwolves gently curling their way around her feet.   
  


* * *

  
The talk here is louder than what she is used to, and with a cynicism she had not thought she possessed, she wondered if life as Hand would have been a bit easier had she heard the words she is able to down here, all but forgotten and alone, save for the growing child and the memories of her family.   
  
Her leg is all but healed now, and when left to her own devices, she paces in the dark, a limp she thinks to be permanent, even without the added imbalance of her pregnancy.   
  
The Queen is in religious exile. Her brother dead. Their children waiting judgement. Robert won’t be too cruel, she hopes. Though Joffrey may be a harsh boy, he remains innocent in this crime.   
  
Tywin Lannister’s steady anger can be heard all the way from Casterly Rock, it is said.   
  
They are calling her ‘power hungry’ and ‘mad’, with only claiming the throne for herself in her view, and suddenly the world is doubting their King for his judgements against his Queen, his Kingslayer.  
  
They talk of assassins howling in the night.  
  
Her daughter is missing-Prince Tommen as well.   
  
The Baratheon girl continues to care for her remaining sons.   
  
Sansa remains in Dorne.   
  
The North is assembling, rumbling, waking from its wintry slumber.   
  
They are coming.   
  
And here she sits, hands on her belly, wearily stroking away the pain from the aggressive babe within. It is a boy, she decides, for Sansa and Arya were smaller, and-well, she shouldn’t say Arya was necessarily quiet, but much more so than this new, wild sibling.   
  
Quietly, sleepily, the ghostly arms of her husband wrapped around her like a shroud, she decides to name him for her father.   
  


* * *

  
His father’s lands are hot, and humid, and there’s nothing more he would like than to ride back to Winterfell, but a crudely made crown (the only acceptable crown for a Stark, he could hear his mother saying, her voice clear in his mind) tethers him in these balmy climes.   
  
He is not meant for a crown, can already feel it’s jagged edges sinking deeper and deeper into his shoulders; the hot sting of disapproval when he manages to free his mother to tell her of her young son’s new betrothals to a Frey, old Walder not so subtly slighting his own daughter for being the child of a bastard Lord-as if his own lineage weren’t so thoroughly corrupted. It took much of his patience not to run the old lord through with his sword, to talk of House Stark in that way, but Ghost nudges his leg and the promise of winter will come.  
  


* * *

  
It’s early morning when Ser Davos bursts into her room, her harried maid behind him, and she does not have time to even squeak when he nods curtly at her, leaving as fast as he entered, Robb, Bran, and their direwolves jumping up to her bed, leaving Neema to gasp at the domineering, fierce animals overwhelming the room.   
  
“Neema? What is happening?” She asks, unsure, glancing at Robb tugging at Grey Wind’s fur in attempt to run Bran over on the bed beside her (whose own wolf is looking relatively impatient). Her maid instead turns to lock and bar her door, looking for all the gods, petrified, moving quickly through the room to Shireen’s dresses.   
  
“We must get you dressed, my lady. There have been ships spotted on the horizon.”  
  
“Ships?”  
  
“Yes, my lady. Dragons.”  
  


* * *

  
Stealing a horse had been tempting, but it’s best not to draw any attention, to risk the punishment she’s not sure she can avoid-having little knowledge of the Riverlands is working against her, against _them_.   
  
The air is cool, yet sticky, and though she can tell when they are moving north, Tommen is growing restless, antsy, tired, and hungry. They both are, both have been ever since her mother was arrested, but running about King’s Landing and sneaking food from open windows and accepting kindly folk’s handouts is a lot different to this open landscape where they listen with fear to the animals at night.   
  
They are getting closer now, she can feel it; her father’s keep wasn’t that far from King’s Landing by horse, and it certainly wasn’t hidden, like she had heard the elusive Greywater Watch was. It’s almost three weeks into their trek, and though he doesn’t complain (too much), Arya is becoming nervous at actually finding this refuge.   
  
It is with relief then, that she finally spots it, there in the distance, and lets herself ‘whoop!’ with joy. Tommen gives her a grin, a kiss, and they’re on their way, yet again, until in the sunset-  
  
“Tommen?”  
  
“Yeah, Arya?”  
  
“Is that...” she squints into the sun. “Is that...a lion?”  
  
And sure enough, neither can spot the trout, nor the wave of blue, but rather just red, gold, a lion’s roar in the wind.  
  


* * *

  
If she were to be honest with herself, Sansa would have to confess that Trystane was not the most affectionate, nor communicative betrothed one could ask for (and she had-she had asked for a Dornish husband when she was _four_ ).   
  
Though living in Sunspear as a future wife, having adopted the Dornish customs, the freckles dotting her skin, she has started to feel more prisoner than beloved betrothed. Secrets are kept from her, conversations die when she enters rooms, and most importantly, to her and Lady at least, her rides through the rolling hills, along the sandy beaches, have been stopped at the gate with a firm hand.   
  
“My sweet prince,” she approaches Trystane, a soft, kind smile on her lips, and oh, how she has to push away her slightly wobbly knees when he smiles that smile at her, the one that makes her silently swoon.   
  
Most of the time.   
  
“Sansa,” he greets her with a kiss to her hand, one he never gives to anyone else-she had once been told by a maid that such customs tend to be forgotten in Dorne, especially to one’s betrothed, but that she gets such treatment because he _knows_ she adores it so.   
  
Really, it is all too easy to forgive Trystane what he lacks.   
  
“I was about to go for a ride with Lady, only to find myself turned away from the gate,” she lightly sings, words as soft as a bird’s song, and he frowns a little. “Would it be too much to ask my prince to tell them to let me through? You know how Lady can get when she cannot run.”   
  
Sansa Stark doesn’t lie. All of Sunspear knows this.   
  
And yet...  
  
She pouts a little, and Lady sits quietly by her side, head cocked a little, as if confused by the threat made on her behalf.   
  
“My lady Sansa,” and suddenly her hands are held ever so softly in his own, and he’s looking down at her, almost into her, and she steels herself a little. “Would that I could, but I fear I cannot. It just isn’t _safe_ for you, -”  
  
“I would be riding with Lady alongside me, my prince-a direwolf most devoted to me and my safety. I would be riding Beryl, a most capable Sand Steed of your own choosing-safe, and strong and swift.” She interrupts, and his frown deepens more for a second, only to smile softly at her once more.   
  
He thinks I’m an invalid.   
  
“Sansa, my love-I am sorry, but all rides have been put to a halt-for now,” he amends, and though she cannot properly bring forth her fondness towards him now, she can see in his eyes the worry, and for once, she realises she should perhaps be worrying more than she previously had.   
  


* * *

  
It trips through her, more than it ever had before, and her cries for help are unusually quiet as her breath is abruptly taken from her.   
  
All in all, she pants, it is probably the easiest of her births (even Jon, she thinks), and it is only the deafening wails of the child that brings the guard rushing to attention, and before she can fully comprehend that the child is indeed a boy and latched firmly to her breast, the world seems to fade to white; a lightness she had not seen in so long, it seems strange to see it again.   
  



	19. Fading Fast In Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so a much better break between chapters, y/y? Excellent, I'm glad your silence agrees with me.

“By the gods, I have no _time_ for this!” The Great Hall seems to tremble a little beneath his feet, and if not for the actual advancing ships, he would be sure it was merely a trick of the mind. “Women’s trivial illnesses-!”  
  
“Yes, Your Grace,” Maester Pycelle cowers slightly, hobbling his way back into his place. And it’s true-with the Targaryen ships spotted on the horizon, the Lady Eddara’s birthing fever had been quickly swept aside and only deemed important to those tending to her.  
  
The King was not one of those sitting by her bedside.  
  
And Tyrion would think him a fool to be one of those who were, what with the imminent threat of dragons. Though a fool with a heart, at the very least. There have been no smiles on Robert’s face since his sibling’s treachery, and Tyrion continues to concentrate on being the smallest he can, to avoid attention.  
  
The Lannister name is not looked upon with kindness in these times, and yet the Lannister gold is still held in high enough esteem, so in King’s Landing Tyrion will remain, a worthless hostage to his father’s eyes, but still with a name of power.  
  
He remains on the outskirts of court, content to listen to, and for once in his self-confessed, ever-so-slightly patronising and gilded life, to not offer an opinion of his own.  
  
King Robert is a great and merciful leader the court stage-whispers, and he nods. King Robert has no need for a Hand that deceives, and he nods. King Robert has been betrayed by the women in his life, and should be rewarded for it by being drowned in whores, wine, and a (hopefully) swift defeat of those who dare cross the Narrow Sea to test his Baratheon wroth. Tyrion nods, especially eager for the latter, though thoroughly supportive of the former.  
  
It is good business to remain in sight for the dwarf, to have eyes, both spiting and innocent on him as much as possible, lest he leave the Lannister name for good. If there were to be at least one thing his father could thank him for, it would be to have his untimely death be as public as possible, he decides.  
  
A decision that is quickly sidelined when news of the ‘boy king’ reaches his ears, and he is reminded of his long-lost, almost forgotten friend, and finds himself slowly making his way to Lady Eddara’s sick bed, determined to complete at least one selfless deed in giving comfort to the sick mother.  


* * *

  
Maester Myles is sitting with her, sipping on sweetened lemon water, gently guiding her through the ledgers of her future home, translating the meanings behind the numbers and charts; things she has been able to catch up on in the recent time her riding privileges have been taken away from her.  
  
It’s a hot and sunny day, the air still and damp around them. Lady is sprawled out in the shade, ears twitching in the heat, and oh how Sansa wishes she could ride out to the sea, at least to relieve Lady her discomfort for a bit.  
  
The doors fly open and the three of them look up to her betrothed, breathless.  
  
“My lady, Sansa,” he strides across the room toward them, boots clicking on the floor, loose robes billowing, coming to kneel before her.  
  
“My Prince?” She inquires, voice cool and smooth as he takes her hand in his own, bestowing upon them a kiss with his warm, dry lips.  
  
“Your sister, sweet Sansa- she is found!” he exclaims, and she allows herself a little gasp, bursting with a smile, a giddy little giggle she is no longer self-conscious about.  
  
“Found?! She is found. The Gods have surely been listening to my prayers, sweet Trystane!” she enthuses, almost hopping in her seat, barely noticing the nodding Maester make his leave of them. “When shall she arrive? Oh, might we find one of the stable’s new mares for her? Or mayhaps a pony still- last we saw each other she was still quite small, and- oh, this is but a blessing! A feast shall greet her and...” she trails off, lemoncakes struck bitter on her tongue as she notices Tyrstane’s barely noticeable shake of his head.  
  
“No, my lady. She has been found in your father’s lands by your brother. Sansa? Are you not still pleased?” He asks as her smile stills, as the blue in her eyes stop dancing with excitement.  
  
“My Prince, but of course I am.” She smiles again, spun sugar lacing her words as she leans down to cup his cheek with her free hand. “I had merely misunderstood. That is all. I have missed my sister, you see. Thank you for being the bearer of such joyous news that she is safe again, sweet Trystane.”  


* * *

  
He is a _prince_ and yet...he winces as the kitchen woman raises her wooden spoon up, landing sharply on his princely arse.  
  
It had been his idea to keep going, to keep on towards Arya’s father’s Keep, that the Lannister banner would protect him, that his grandfather’s men would keep them safe, keep them comfortable, and yet his betrothed (still? he’s no longer sure, but a small part of him likes to think so, when he can be bothered to think on it at all, his world having collapsed around his ears so quickly) had protested so vehemently that only a comforting hand in hers, a strong embrace, a stroke of her filthy, mottled hair, had kept her calm.  
  
And so they had had yet another few nights in the forest, and he is glad her family’s words have yet to come true, the evening air sweet and warm, while the morning dawned on them cool and icy, misting around them.  
  
It is on such a warm night, when Arya is on watch, barely staying awake (he pretends to sleep, watching her stubbornly keep her word), when the bushes rustle, red eyes gleaming out through the leaves, a shining white body slinking into the night before them.  
  
 _Ghost._  
  
Arya had certainly woken up then, her sharp gasp soon muffled by her hands as relieved tears pooled in her dark eyes, the direwolf butting it’s mighty head against her knee, blinking quietly in the dark. It was this beacon that lead them to her brother, now called King of the North, who with his Queen and daughter, greeted them with relief and gratitude.  
  
Relief at seeing his sister again, his sister of whom he had not heard news of for so long, and though dusty and ragged, was a sight to behold.  
  
Gratitude at the street boy who had helped her escape King’s Landing.  
  
 _Helped_. Hah.  
  
Jon doesn’t recognise him, and if he looked at himself in a mirror, Tommen doubts he would either. He has grown much since that long-ago visit to Winterfell, where he had last been in awe of the younger Lord Stark towering above him with a grin. Now Tommen is close in height to Arya’s royal brother, stretched out tall, his hair choppy and curls shorn in places, and dark, very dark with the dust and mud and shit he and Arya would pack into it to keep him hidden.  
  
Wynafryd-nay, _the Queen_ he mentally corrects himself-stares a little too closely as Arya explains who he is, a stable boy abused by his master, ready to help her escape, and, er, good in the kitchen?  
  
“Is that a question, sister?” Jon asks, lip twitching. Tommen wants to shake his head ‘no’-he’s been in a kitchen before to steal away with cakes and treats, but never to cook. “What say you, boy? Can you be of use to the cook?”  
  
He looks up to see the imposing man talking directly to him, and gods-he may not be as kingly as his father, but Jon Stark certainly held a command.  
  
“Yes! Yes, he can. He would gather nuts for us to eat on our journey.” Arya interjects, and Tommen does his best not to frown.  
  
“Nuts?” Jon frowns. “Arya-”  
  
“I was a kitchen sweep!” He blurts out, the lie tumbling past his lips, possibly the only job he could accomplish without much complaint. They all stare at him, and Arya, wide-eyed mouths something at him, as this so-called King and Queen frown a little in surprise at him.  
  
“A-a sweep, Your Graces...” He trails off and bows a little, an attempt to mask the bitter taste of treason in his mouth. His _father_ is King, he _is_ a Baratheon, but much like Arya would point on an almost daily basis, he was quite stupid as well (much like his father, he thinks sourly).  
  
And so if Arya had thought him better masked in the kitchens, then he would trust her for it.  
  
Jon doesn’t look too convinced, and Tommen takes that as a sign of his intellect, but the sight of Arya nodding and about to open her mouth to further her cause makes the false king shake his head with a soft laugh, waving Tommen away with thanks into the kitchens, broom in hand, and a sore arse.  
  
He grimaces, ruffling his hair in defiance, watching with a muted glee as flecks of dirt scattered to the ground, some even dropping into the bubbling stew without notice.  


* * *

  
He won’t. stop. _crying_.  
  
And she’s at the point where all she wants to do is cry with him.  
  
“Poor little pup,” Neema murmurs beside her, and Shireen desperately wants to pass the newly birthed babe onto the maid, but he is her duty, her responsibility.  
  
Robb and Bran sit with them, playing quietly by themselves-a rare occurrence that she doesn’t wish to question just yet as they sit in the Great Sept of Baelor, waiting for the doors to close.  
  
“Neema, please check on where the wet nurse is.” Shireen huffs, pacing in futile effort to quiet the babe that has no name, watching as various ladies of court make their way into the vast room, some frantic, others staring at her in blatant distaste, and Shireen wants to send them out to fend off the bloody Targaryens themselves if they didn’t want to share a space with her or her charges.  
  
Neema skitters off, and Robb and Bran remain, thankfully, ignorant of what happens around them, their direwolves sat at attention on either side of them, and the babe continues to squall.  
  
It is a strange day, she decides.  
  
Oh, she fears for the lives she cares for, for her own, the enemy ships coming ever closer, and that unnerving feeling is contagious in the Sept, ladies and handmaidens alike fisting their sweaty hands into the material of their skirts while Shireen tries to coo at the little boy.  
  
The wet nurse, Maenda, is shuffled through the doors, Neema by her side, and Shireen despairs at the petrified look on the woman’s face. But the little one is so very small, and Neema trusts Maenda, and Shireen trusts Neema, so it must be her.  
  
“M’lady,” Maenda curtsies, and Shireen shifts the suddenly quiet child into the woman’s arms where he latches eagerly onto her swollen breast. “has he been named, m’lady?”  
  
She curtly shakes her head, jaw clenching a little at the mention of the mother the nameless boy should be  feeding with, the mother who is not being being moved from her sweat stained sick bed during this attack,  under guard and delirious with fever.  
  
Robb knows enough to not ask after his mama, and luckily Bran’s genial little personality follows his older brother’s lead, both becoming accustomed to Shireen’s presence in lieu of their mama. It will be easier, she thinks, when-well, when the worst comes. For it will. Despite her upbringing, Shireen’s known herself to be a little fanciful at times, a romantic that her parents would quite disapprove of, but with the threat of dragons, Lady Eddara’s birthing fever _and_ her treasonous plotting Shireen is not too convinced of, she does not see much happiness in the future of the Stark family.  
  
Drums boom boom boom and ladies wail and cry and just barely, if you listen carefully over the sound of the babe suckling at Maenda’s breast, you could probably even hear the faint shout of the soldiers sent to protect them, to defend them, to die.  
  
Through the window there is a faint green amongst the yellow flames, and the sept feels even hotter, more stifling, suddenly suffocating with thoughts of death and destruction and despair.  
  
Shireen watches the boys, watches her maid, watches the light dance upon the wall before her. She thinks on her father and uncle, and slides to her knees to offer a prayer to the Mother, the Warrior, the Crone. It is a little difficult when the babe begins to howl again, when Robb’s and Bran’s direwolves knock her over in their haste to get to the guarded doors.  
  
“What...?”  
  
There is a scratching to be heard on the other side, and as she approaches the doors they open a crack, the last of the direwolves jumping through, and she is again knocked clean off her feet as the black beast storms its way past it’s brothers and up to the frightened Maenda who squawks as the child in her arms abruptly goes quiet at the touch of the animal’s nose against his kicking foot.  
  
A guard comes through from the door, apologetic, and Shireen waves him off.  
  
“No need to apologise, Ser,” she says, “for if the battle turns tide against us, and you and your craven ways inevitably opens those doors once more, we shall have three fierce warriors to protect us.”  


* * *

  
Flames shadow dance up the walls of the her room, her pale exposed arms tinted green, and it’s so clear, so very clear that her husband has come to her bedside, to her bed, his large hands holding her own, suddenly weak with...something. She’s not sure what it is, but she’s so tired, she can barely summon the strength to move.  
  
She can feel her hair cool and caked on her forehead, limp and lifeless behind her as she rolls her head to the side, eyes lazy in the candlelight.  
  
“We did it, Ned. It’s not the same without you though.” His soft, deep voice grumbles, and she manages a smile, lips barely moving, the whisper filled with incomprehensible sounds, rather than words.  
  
 _Robert_.  
  
He beams at her, and oh, how easy it is to forgive this man, again and again- she must truly be as weak a woman as court had painted her when she first arrived in this godsforsaken place.  
  
“It’s alright, Neddy. You sleep, old girl. I’ll be here when you wake.”  
  
And with a lazy blink, she is back in the darkness, like sinking into the soft ground, warm and comforting and dream-like.  
  
Her hand is being held again; Robert returned. Her king.  
  
He should know.  
  
 _Should he? You promised me._  
  
Oh, Lyanna. He is a changed man.  
  
 _I suppose you believe that. Though I do not think it wise. You made a promise, Ned. You promised me._  
  
I am so tired of promises, Lyanna. Can’t you see? I can go home now, to my sweet babes, my boy. I have lost so much, I want my children.  
  
“I...I want...” and the hand holding her tightens a bit in question. Her voice is soft, rasping, reaching, and he leans forward to hear her better, holding his breath as if to block out all noise other than her breath.  
  
“My...my suuhnn.” She slurs sleepily. “My si-si-ster...son. _My_ son. I...I...Jon.”  
  
He pulls back a bit, and looks around the room, breathing out a sigh of relief when he finds there is still no one else there, mulling over the words he has been given, unsure of what to do with this unexpected gift from this unexpected visit.  
  
He had only meant to do some good, to have his conscience lifted after seeing to his friend’s dear mother, but this...this _implication_ (for that is all he will think of it, for now at least) is throwing. For though all that Tyrion Lannister prides himself on being quick, on being smart, his only weapon should his father’s gold run dry, he is taking these fevered words very much with a grain of salt.  
  
Because what Lady Stark speaks of goes beyond treason, beyond- he’s not even sure anymore. And Lady Stark would never consent to dishonourable treachery, would she? Surely not.  


* * *

  
There is no place for him amongst the cheers, the laughter echoing throughout the Great Hall, but it was Queen Wynafryd herself who requested him as her cup bearer, a definite promotion from sweeping the kitchens and ducking out of the cook’s wooden spoons all evening.  
  
Arya bites her lip to look serious, and he tries not to meet her eye too often, his eyes only on the queen, a heavy jug of wine in his hands that she rarely calls for.  
  
News from King’s Landing is great, King Jon had said, but without their Lady North (Lady Eddara’s new name, it seems), they will not stop.  
  
“The Lannisters have prowled these Riverlands far too long. They have my father and your Lord’s Keep, and the men that follow Clegane have ravaged, have raped your home far too long...” He went on, but Tommen stopped listening, muscles beginning to twitch under the weight of the wine he has yet to serve, Wynafryd completely ignoring her quite full goblet on the table before her in favour of talking to Arya beside her.  
  
Arya, who looks every bit the lady despite her short hair, washed and scrubbed and poured into a dress that she constantly fidgets in, pulling at the sleeves, the neckline, and he is jealous, a little. Not of the dress, but of the cleanliness he has missed, the family he no longer has, can no longer lay claim to without risk, and it’s startling when he tastes a salty tear in the corner of his lips.  
  
It is a week later when his uncle arrives, his usual mis-matched eyes passing Tommen over completely- that is when Tommen knows for sure his and Arya’s disguise has worked, that even his uncle Tyrion doesn’t see him beneath the grime and growth. He is in the king’s solar for barely ten minutes when Arya comes running to find him, dragging him into an empty stable stall, dragging him down to her in a hug so fierce he begins to feel the loss of his family so acutely he shakes along with her.  


* * *

  
“You’re awake, then.”  
  
“I am, aye.”  
  
It had been a spectacularly sunny day when her fever broke, the morning cool breathing life back into her as she woke from her dreams once more. It has been too long, too warm, and with a wave of panic she had not the energy to push down completely, she sees she is no longer with child, and visions of the black cells, of trying to give birth herself, her hands and knees scraping on the stone, muddied with dirt and shit floor with every push, her sobbing cries echoing around her, but it is not much after that she can recall.  
  
Robert stands before the foot of her bed, looking down at her weakened state, muscles weak and skin drawn taught over the loss of weight.  
  
“Your son seems determined to kill me, old girl.” He rumbles, and Ned meets his eye. “Already he has the Riverlands rallying his cause, all crying out for their _Lady North_ ,” he spits out and she bites her tongue.  
  
Robert always has more to say than meets the ear.  
  
“Lannister only barely helped keep this kingdom from burning down, and only if I were to let his bloody dwarf son go. Even with Cersei gone, her gold still rules over my bloody head.”  
  
And there is so much to learn since she slept, since she was arrested, but for now she must assume the best, that her children are safe, that Stannis and Oberyn fulfilled their promises. Which leaves only one thing.  
  
“Where is my baby? Can I see him, Robert- please?”  
  
And she must truly look pathetic she thinks, the way her old friend’s heaving sigh and pitiful blue eyes look at her, and for a painful moment she fears the worst until he finally nods.  
  
It’s a blur between Robert leaving and her child being returned to her by dear Lady Shireen, who smiles broadly at her and wishes her health well.  
  
“I prayed for you, my lady,” she greets, patting the black direwolf down from leaping up onto the bed with a stern _no_. “Did you have a name in mind for him?”  
  
And though she’ll cry in grief when she realises her breasts are unable to feed her baby, they are only tears of sweet relief at the sight of her beautiful, red haired Rickon looking up at her with his father’s Tully eyes, a toothless smile and gurgle greeting her for the first time.


	20. Night's Quiet and You Don't Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not quite a month between updates. Success? I think so.

“ _Khaleesi_ , we must leave, go back-”  
  
“No. No.”   
  
But gods, the girl was stubborn. Even with supplies at their lowest, Drogon missing, and their staggering defeat at King’s Landing, Daenerys Targaryen, nerves almost shot and blood rushing through her with a fury at the sight of those Lions, those wretched _Stags_ waving their banners above _her_ rightful home, where the three-headed dragon should be flying still.   
  
“We were not properly planned, _khaleesi_. They had weapons we could not imagine-”  
  
“I can see that,” she spits, purple eyes violent upon the sea, the waves shining in the sun, and it flashes back to her, those fires of green almost decimating her fleet, herself even, had Ser Jorah not commanded that she be taken further back _now_ , and it was with a splash and a horrified scream that she last saw her bear.   
  
Drogon had made flight then, and she yelled for both of them, for the knight who helped her cross the Narrow Seas, for her dark child, still small and susceptible to arrows, no matter how much fire he and his brothers could flame.   
  
They would go to where the people still whisper her name, the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she commands, ignoring the black storm clouds coming in from the north.   
  


* * *

  
She can walk while cradling her child to her now. A big step in her recovery, though not big enough for her to practice with a blade again. Not that she would be allowed such luxury, she realises as Lady Shireen (no longer the young girl she had first met, but a woman now, a grim determination in her blue eyes, a kindness in her scarred face) escorts her back to her room, a guard their constant companion.   
  
No, she thinks, sighing onto the window seat, legs shaking much to her embarrassment after barely an hour’s stroll with Lady Shireen and her sons trotting along with them, baby Rickon carried proudly by his eldest brother who chirps and laughs happily at his mama being outside again. At even _seeing_ her again, she thinks bitterly, leaning into the wall and watching the debris of broken ships and broken soldiers be dredged out of the waters below.   
  
Her sons are here, at least. Sansa at Sunspear, and Arya... closing her eyes she prayed for her youngest girl to be healthy, to be safe. Lady Shireen had been the one to tell her Arya was missing, having run away from the keep while her wolf howled itself sick with grief for her until one day Nymeria escaped out from the keep herself, never to be seen again. Which is a surprise, given how the wolves had quickly grown to be the size of ponies since she last saw them, intimidating all those who came near, so Ned muses that Nymeria must have escaped King’s Landing, there being no way that a wolf that large wouldn’t be spotted or raise the alarm among the people.   
  
Lady Shireen had stumbled over the news of Arya herself, her face and eyes brave, her voice nervous as she watched Ned’s face turn to ice, her eyes to stone.   
  
What kind of fool allowed a young girl to so easily escape the keep? _Robert_.   
  
She knows nothing apart from her children, and even then she believes her knowledge of that to be restricted. Jon is in the Riverlands, the King of the North, and she despairs for him, his Lady North.   
  
Robert had thrown a tantrum, roaring at the world that _he_ is the king, and she had agreed.   
  
“You think I asked my son to challenge you?” she had asked, hurt at the implied accusation.   
  
“And challenge me is all he does!”  
  
“You _arrested_ me, Your Grace,” she retorts, voice cutting. “I know you did not intend on the love the north has for me and mine flying back in your face, but alas, it has.”  
  
The two friends were silent, gulls squawking in the distance between them.  
  
At last, “Send me to him, Robert,” she endears, voice twisting into something she had once deplored in those who would use their words to dance, rather than be blunt, like she once was. “I will remain under arrest, but let me show my son reason, let me settle the north’s thirst-”  
  
He had laughed, then “I am not made for being a king, old girl-but I know enough of the sweet words of a lady you would have me fall to. No.”  
  
He had left then, and that had been over three days ago. Lady Shireen had become frustratingly tight-lipped while appearing to attempt to slip her some verbal clues in her conversation, but Ned had had no context for these hints, had had no idea where to place them in the world she had woken up to, the politics completely beyond her grasp.   
  
She has been given the paints, but there is nothing to paint on or with, and it is increasingly frustrating, all of it. Her time at King’s Landing, her time in the south, her son reacting to her imprisonment with a fury she had not expected, her girls gone, her boys barely able to see her, her babe unable to feed from her, her husband-  
  
That prickling of overwhelming grief bubbles up in her chest, her heart and she squeezes it down, angry and sad and determined not to feel sorry for herself for all that had happened. It was Kit’s pain that should sadden her, not her loss of the man, and yet- she chokes out a dry sob, squinting her eyes shut, her jaw shaking, her body quivering in loss.   
  
There had been no goodbye.   
  
Not that day. No kiss upon her hand, no hand with a gentle squeeze upon her waist, their way of letting one another know that they are _there_ , that they will be gone for but a moment. No nod of acknowledgement, no word, no mention of where he had been going or why, or even that he _was_ departing.   
  
Just a quick whisper to the septa while Ned herself was engaged in conversation to her left, baby Bran happily asleep in her arms, and she barely notices her husband’s absence from the stands as Bran is taken back to the Red Keep, as she is mockingly, sickeningly, crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty.   
  
Her heart shakes and she bites her tongue till there’s bleeding. Her husband dead, the owner of her heart gone, and she feels made of stone.   
  


* * *

  
Myles looks at her with a sad frown, and she bites the inside of her cheek at the news. Her mother, alive and well, captive at the Red Keep.   
  
“She will be well-looked after, my lady. As befitting her station.” He says quickly, quietly, and though she has missed her mother terribly, has feared for her and her brother’s lives as that Targaryen Dragon made their attack on King’s Landing, it is the knowledge that her mother is well, that the babe is well, that makes her wish desperately to see her again, to brush her mother’s hair, to have her own brushed by her, and-   
  
It is a mother’s comfort she seeks, and the maester’s secretive message, sent covertly from a ‘friend’ within the keep, holds none of it.   
  
Trystane, her lovely prince, holds little comfort in the words she had been promised to secrecy, and it is only Lady who whines a little at her feet that provides any semblance of home.   
  
_Home_.   
  


* * *

  
“ _Stupid_ ,” she hissed to herself, rushing from the stables, her dress and hair covered in straw. She holds her skirts up high as she runs across the courtyard, mindful of the sounds a flapping dress can make, can attract.   
  
She had spent another night in the stables, a newly found Nymeria wrapped around her. Jon had welcomed Nymeria into Riverrun, as had Ghost, but the direwolf had had none of it, had growled and nipped even at Arya herself when she had tried to push, to pull by the ruff of her neck to no avail.   
  
The first morning she had been found in the stables, Jon had laughed, ruffled her straw-ridden hair, and said ‘no more’. The second morning Wynafryd had been kind with her words, holding Arya’s hands as if she could relate to what the girl was going through (though if Arya had known the frightened mother of the months passed, how Aphra had only just began to sleep away from her parents, Arya might be a little more sympathetic), and Arya nods stiffly.   
  
“Arya, my sister- you are a _princess_. I would not have you change the way you are, but I would have you sleep in your own bed, if it please you.”  
  
And though her initial instinct had been to make her way immediately to her wolf, her other half, she remembers how much she actually _likes_ Wynafryd, how happy she makes her brother, how kind and gentle she is, how nice she has treated Tommen only thinking him an insignificant cup bearer, and she changes her mind, going back to her bed.   
  
It had been a restless sleep that night, and the next she had carefully made her way down to the stables, to just sit with Nymeria, she tells herself-much like she tells herself the next night, and the night after that one. Her intentions had been good, and it had been an accident to fall into sleep with her wolf, waking with the sun and creeping back into the castle.   
  
Wynafryd finds her as she closes her bedroom door, waiting on her bed, and with a smile in her blue eyes, she tuts at Arya’s hair, her state of dress, and with a mother’s gentle hand, helps pick out the straw Arya can’t shake out on her own.   
  
“Will you tell Jon?” Arya asks, voice anxious.   
  
Wynafryd looks at her, laying a kiss on her now-clean brow. “I shan’t, but you will. I will argue your case best I can Arya, but you know your brother. Though he could merely command you as king, I know his reasons come from wanting you safe.”  
  
She nods, and watches as Wynafryd leaves, deep green skirts swishing behind her.   
  
Mother is safe, Jon is safe, Robb and Bran, and the babe is safe, Sansa is safe. Her _family_ is safe.   
  
Wynafryd was right.   
  
But Arya’s dreams, the way she howls in them, ripping flesh from bone with a snarl, silencing those with gold upon their heads, gold within their blood, only to melt before the scorching sky of fire, has her thinking otherwise.   
  
Her family _isn’t_ safe.   
  
Jon is a traitor to the crown, his Lady and daughter with him guilty of treason.   
  
Mother and Robb and Bran and the babe she does not yet know the name of are being held within the grasp of those her brother is betraying.   
  
Sansa is too far from home with her betrothed, not yet within the safety of being wed, of being under the protection of the Martells, and Sansa _is_ useless.   
  
She laughs softly to herself, bringing a brush to her hair, suddenly feeling much older as she thought of her beautifully tall sister, so much more capable than she would have people believe.   
  


* * *

  
_Home_.   
  
Home is all she thinks now, stealing away into the night, riding skillfully over the lands she has learned so well, studied so hard, imploring her mind to recall the ways her brother and mother’s ward had taught her to avoid tracks. A horse with a simple minded handmaiden thunders beside her nimble mount, and a stable boy the trusted maester had employed sits beside them. Lady sprints ahead of them all, leading the way.   
  
It is difficult to say goodbye to Beryl, to push Lady away with her beautiful grey mare, to run off together over the dunes, a silent, eerie promise between wolf and owner that they would meet again, as Sansa spurs on the black gelding with white hocks into the opposite direction, to double back as Jon and Theon had once taught her, albeit only in theory.   
  
The boy, who has yet to speak his name, or rather, speak at all, rides with her, quiet at her side, quiet throughout the clipped exchange between the stern lady and quailing handmaiden, quiet, always oh so quiet. If not for the urgency of her escape (for it can only be called an escape, nothing else), she fears she might be driven mad by his constant silence by her side.   
  
It would have to do however, to have not only one, but two false trails lead behind her. The heat is stifling, her skin gone beyond pink with sun, and her hair bound tightly behind her in an old blue scarf in effort to conceal as much of her identity as possible lest they require help from those they would likely meet on the road.   
  
She thinks on her confidant, the handsome maester who listened to her worries, who promised to hold her words secret, to aid her the best he could. Trystane does not know what it is she intends to do, and nor will he for what she counts on being at least another half day of confusion over her missing presence.   
  
“You will meet a trusted friend at the Singer’s Inn, my lady,” was all he had said, and in an attempt to be like her lady mother, to be brave when most scared, she had nodded down at him from her horse. She would not be going far, but he had advised her to make her departure as convoluted as possible for those who would inevitably follow.   
  
Maybe she is being _stupid_ , like her sister liked to say, but as Sansa looks around the crowded Inn, her face burning with frustration and the sun, she cannot help but at least feel as though she is doing _something_.   
  
There are dragons coming, after all.   
  
And though a wolf does not run from her enemies, a wolf knows when a trap is laid. Trystane may not have had any knowledge of it, and the Martells may have come to love her, to admire her, to bring her into their family like a long lost sister, but much like the sun can warm, can heal, can grow those it embraces, it can also burn, can devour with its fierce flame.   
  


* * *

  
“My Lord... may we talk?” He asks, usually elegant words stumbling over what to call this friend, this boy with a splintered crown on his head.   
  
“We are speaking now, Lord Tyrion,” Jon replies smoothly, watching little Aphra kick her legs and arms up in the air in front of the fire, Ghost wrapped around her in a protective cocoon. “unless you believe my daughter a spy?”   
  
Tyrion snorts at Jon’s wry grin and Aphra squeals a little as Ghost’s tongue tickles her tiny little foot. Wynafryd looks on at the pair fondly, glad of her daughter’s ease with the direwolf, of having not only her husband’s bannermen ready to protect her glowing babe, but her husband’s sigil itself standing over little Aphra Stark.   
  
She spots the imp’s miss matched eyes dart over to her sewing in the corner, and makes to stand, to leave her king and his friend to their privacy. Though she knows Jon will protest, she will gently put a hand on his shoulder, curtsey to the little lord, and leave anyway.   
  
Her husband is powerful. Her husband has made her a queen.   
  
But her husband, she thinks, smiling demurely at the men as she closes the door behind her, was not his mother, did not quite have the skills yet to properly wield this power given to him, did not need his lady wife around at all times.   
  
When the North looked to Lady Eddara, they saw the head of House Stark, Winter come again, a warrior lady to follow and respect.   
  
When the North looked to Jon, they saw their lady’s son, a background of bastardry that was kept to gossiping kitchen maids, but their lady’s strong Stark son all the same. It was their love of their Lady Stark (now given the title ‘Lady North’), their love of House Stark that kept them following Jon Stark to the release of his mother.   
  
When the North looked to _her_ , she was a ‘good northern lass’ with good hips, an heir already come from her loins, with hopefully more to come (preferably boys).   
  
To his men, Jon is not his mother, and thus, not truly his men. They will follow his name into the arms of the Stranger, but much like his mother before him, Jon will have to earn the respect his name has given him.   
  
So she leaves him to his council with his men, ever content in her public role as lady wife, to take care of his children, to warm his bed.   
  
He will speak with her when they reunite, will continue to invite her to council when they are returned home at Winterfell, but until then, she will play her part until he no longer has to play at his own.   
  
She is greeted with a quiet husband and a sleeping Aphra being carried out of the room by her handmaiden.   
  
“Your Grace,” Ida bobs, pausing to let Wynafryd bow a kiss onto her child’s crown before letting the door close softly behind her.   
  
Jon looks up as Wynafryd steps forward, and she falters as she registers the look on his face.   
  
“My husband...? Is there something amiss?” She queries, and the most heartbreaking smile crosses his face, a chortle forcing its way from his chest.   
  
“Would there be anything wrong when I have you with me, dear wife?” He ponders, grey eyes listlessly roaming about the room, taking in the Tully and Stark infused designs, the majestic tapestry telling tale of battles past, one small panel depicting a warrior in the background with spinning braids, a flashing sword amongst a swirl of skirts.   
  
He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. She kneels before him, gathering his hands in hers, bringing them to her lips for a kiss.   
  
“Jon- please, tell me what has happened. Has Lord Tyrion said something? Is it your mother?”  
  
And he only looks away, a wry grin on his lips.   
  
“My mother...” he begins, words trailing off into nothingness, and she watches him, squeezing his hands in comfort, her heart beating just a little faster when he squeezes back, but still cannot look to her.   
  
“My love?”  
  
“‘My love’...” he murmurs, eyes gazing out the window, the Riverlands laid out before them. “You love a bastard, Wynafryd.”  
  
It is nothing she has not heard before, even from his own mouth, this husband so unknowingly like his mother in his bouts of uncertainty, and so she remains quiet.   
  
“You love a bastard, wife,” he says, eyes finally meeting her own, and oh, how dark they are, how tumultuous and stormy and even scared, they seem.   
  
“A bastard I shall love for the rest of my life, husband,” she counters, repeating words of comfort she has said before, words that would lead to a soft smile, a soft kiss, a tight embrace, a-  
  
“No, Wynafryd,” he shakes his head, voice hard. “For if this new...tale of the Lady North be true, you have fathered a child with one born of bastardry, of treason, of rebellion.”  
  
His voice cracks at the last word, and she tilts her head in confusion.   
  
“Your mother-” she starts, and is cut off with a wince, his hands squeezing her own a little too tight, her knuckles grinding together. He is instantly apologetic, eyes sad with the unintentional hurt inflicted on the one he loves, and she grants him a forgiving smile.   
  
“I have heard many, many tales of my mother, my love-as have you, I am sure,” she nods, prompting him to continue. “And so every time I have heard one I did not like when I was a boy, I would go to her and she would hold me and tell me the truth of it. As I grew, as I gained a father in name only, I had him to learn from, to learn that that story about my mother coupling with wolves could not, in fact, be true in any way.”  
  
He pauses at her soft snort of amusement, grants her a small smile of his own.   
  
“To couple with a wolf, she would be covered in scars that no dress could hide, and my sisters would have bright and fluffy tails,” he reasons, voice teasing, and oh, it is lovely to see him like this again, her serious husband.  
  
She thinks to wit about their own litter growing, of the pup starting to swim within her, but just as quickly he grows sober in thought and she bites her tongue.   
  
“I have heard many a tale of my mother, Wynafryd. And every time I have been able to exercise my own judgement on how false it is, on where the truth in it lies, with great skill. And yet I fear I may need your help with this particular tale.”  
  
“I...I shall do my best, Jon. Tell me, and I will listen.”


	21. Hold Onto Anything

He returns, to her, and it’s a relief, almost, her own company surely driving her slowly mad.   
  
“Robert, please-please don’t keep me from my children any longer, I beg of you-” she’s desperate now, no longer the sensible, calming girl he had known since childhood, but rather a woman, a _mother_ gone with madness for her children so far away, so close yet distant, and he has no doubt that Stannis’s girl has been feeding her stilted information that makes little sense when pieced together.   
  
He thinks of them both, equally scarred and equally unconventional, even unfortunate in their features.   
  
One lonely girl helping one lonely lady.  
  
She doesn’t cry, and he’s glad for it. Ned’s always been a strong old girl for him, a pillar with teats and long hair to lean on whenever he was hurt or was in a terrible rage, his family words come to truth and almost crippling him as a child (he is not as proud as many might think, to be able to admit to this ofttimes weakness-it could strike down a dragon prince and his own heart in one fell swoop).   
  
“You have been my friend, my kin since I was a boy, Eddara.” And he watches as she doesn’t even wince at the use of her full name, clenching her jaw instead. “You have been my brother in arms, someone to trust my life and crown with, and yet you betray me not just once, but twice.”  
  
“Ro-Your Grace,” she grits out, eyes almost red. “I only did what I had to to ensure your safe reign. I am sorry that it has come to this, but only a fool would think I would speak against you-”  
  
“And now you call your king a fool, Lady Stark.” He cuts across her, and she looks as if she has been told off by her father, like a little girl she never really was, chastised and pushed down with a few curt words of disappointment from the men around her. Head bowed, she is a submissive woman he does not know.   
  
“Tell me true, Ned. Tell me what makes your word of rule truer than my own.”  
  
For a moment it is as if she hasn’t heard him, but it the way her fingers, still scarred from that dagger in their youth, begin to relax, easing their grip on her skirts that shows she is about to answer, and answer true.   
  
Ned Stark was always the most relaxed when speaking the truth, and he loved her for it.   
  
At times.   
  
Her voice shakes a bit at first, but is still, cool, calm and steady as the winds of her beloved winter when she turns her face up to look at him.  
  
“I would never declare my rule truer than yours, Robert. Though I would also never have the murder of young babes herald the start of my rule either.”  
  
“That was necessary-”  
  
“The murder of innocents is never necessary, Robert. And if it cannot be avoided then you cannot celebrate it as you did and _praise_ those who committed the crime!”  
  
“Lyanna-”  
  
“Lyanna is _dead_ and if you truly think her unable to defend herself as I have all these years you have known me, then you do her memory a disservice.”  
  
Somehow, she only manages to see the throw after the impact, his heavy, still so strong arm swinging at her, his closed fist meeting her jaw with a precision she has seen from him many times never directed at her, pain clashing through her head, snapping her neck back in defense from the blow.   
  
It is not as hard as she knows he can hit a person with, but that is not something she takes comfort in, feeling the blood pool in her mouth, gingerly touching her face and flexing her jaw a little, wincing in the process.   
  
They used to wrestle as children, a fun game that they both came out of with bruises, ruffled hair and red, laughing faces. Lord Jon would chastise them, warn them against it as they grew older, and soon enough they did, wary of each other’s changes in stature, half-hearted punches to the arm in affection replacing the rough and tumble of their youth.   
  
But Robert had never truly hit her before now. And she can see his face, the anger slowly seeping out of it as he looks as if he too cannot quite believe what he did, as if his hand had acted on it’s on volition without his consent. She hisses a little in pain, and his eyes dart up to her face, to the blood stained teeth she is baring, the shake of her head as if resigned, as if not truly surprised that it had finally come to this.   
  
“Why am I your prisoner, Robert?” She asks, voice low and careful not to move her mouth too much. The room is silent, and it must be the madness that has become her life that makes her want to laugh.   
  
_I have been struck by a Queen and now a King. Who shall strike me next?_  
  
“You betrayed me.” He grumbles, looking as if she were his mother telling him off for stealing a cake from the kitchens. She just shakes her head.   
  
“No, Robert. I was keeping you from the blood of Lannister bastards on your hands. I kept the crown its Lannister purse despite your queen’s cuckholding. I-”  
  
“You kept it from me, you kept it from your _king_.” He interrupts, and her head throbs in pain as she looks at him with a sad small smile.   
  
“Would you have believed me, Your Grace?” She says, watching him anew.   
  
He would not.   
  


* * *

  
  
“I cannot stay here, brother. No longer.” He flinches at her declaration, a grim smile on his lips as he takes in his youngest sister trussed up in a flowery gown, her hair done up in a Southron Knot, cheeks pink with shine, having been scrubbed to within an inch of their lives, he suspects.   
  
She is trying to impress him, to make an impression, but all Jon can think is of how fast she has grown, this young girl almost a woman of eleven years, and he gets a twinge in the pit of his stomach as the thought of making her a match suddenly flits through his mind.   
  
“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, Jon. Your Grace, I mean.” She hastily corrects herself, and he wants to hug his little sister as he used to, wants to tell her that she needn’t dress up, nor to speak like Sansa would to gain his favour. But she’s more a woman, more a lady every day that goes by, and it is something her mother would approve of, would encourage.   
  
And she is right, he thinks, watching her from across the yard, commanding his wife’s cup bearer about, the tall lad grimacing under the watchful gaze of Nymeria. He frowns a little watching the two, Arya playfully bickering at the boy, calling him _stupid_ (her favourite word, it must be), watching her stomp off in her skirts with an indescribable look on his face.   
  
“The boy is fond of her, my love,” comes a voice from his left, and he startles to see Wynafryd beside him, Aphra in her arms and playing with her mother’s long braids. His little daughter, grown so fast. He remembers Arya at that size.   
  
“Papa,” she chirps, reaching for him, and he reaches back, taking her in his arms with a broad grin at her giggling little laugh.   
  
“You are so grown, princess,” he says, her little hands pawing at his own hair, tugging mightily at his beard. Wynafryd laughs at his grimace, tutting at the tiny hand, but doing nothing to swat it away.   
  
“She has her father’s strength,” she smiles, “one day she will be a fierce warrior, Princess Aphra Stark.”  
  
 _So like her grandmother_ , he tries not to think, acknowledging the unspoken words from his lady wife, of the tale he had repeated for her from the imp, his friend, the completely untrue story he refuses to believe.   
  
He is his mother’s son, like Aphra is her grandmother’s shadow, her blue eyes and smile the only sign of her mother having carried her for nine moons.   
  
But they do not speak of her, his mother, only of his Lady North, of reclaiming the north, of punishing the crown their crimes against their own.   
  
Jon Snow. Jon Stark. Jon Targaryen.   
  
The dragons are dead, King Robert made sure of that.   
  
He was not dead.   
  
He could not be one, then, for he was most certainly alive.   
  
He wanted to laugh, to mock himself his own simple-minded logic, for it could not really be so, could it?   
  
His mother had taught him that very often, it was the simplest solution that was the best, that it was unwise to turn shadows into enemies, to believe the tale without hearing it from the one person who held authorship over it.   
  
It was what he lived by as a boy, what kept the errant footsteps from outside his room from turning into an intruder intent on harm, what kept him believing that his mama would return from the Ironborn Rebellion even when news began to slowly trickle back to them, tales of ships reaving the coasts, of women being taken against their will as salt wives.  
  
His mama had proved those tales false when she had returned to him, bringing him a brother before she would bring him sisters. “You have my word as a Stark,” she would say, and that was enough.   
  
_She_ was his mother, and he would not hear otherwise.   
  
The whispered tale of his aunt dead before her time amongst a pool of blood and a babe nestled in a bed of roses was just that. A tale. Lord Tyrion held no authorship over it, and though his friend, Lord Tyrion has been known to lie well, and skillfully.   
  
Though not often without reason.   
  


* * *

  
  
“We’re going north. _Home_.” She says wistfully. “And you are to come with me.”   
  
His eyes widen a little, but Tommen cannot say he’s surprised, really. If anyone were able to wrangle a cup bearer away from the _queen_ it would be Arya Stark.   
  
“It will be safer for you, and I will hold my family’s home in their stead and-oh, when mother comes home we can go to the Wall and it shall be an adventure and-”  
  
“You are going to Winterfell to hold the North, little sister. Not to go on adventures with your little friend here.” her brother interrupts, seemingly out of nowhere, and out of forced habit Tommen bows, his long dirty hair falling over his eyes with a ‘your grace’. Jon acknowledges him with a nod, but his attention remains on his sister and the missing Baratheon is largely ignored.   
  
“Of course, Jon. But when you, and mother, and Wynafryd come home-”  
  
“Yes, Arya.” He interrupts with a smile. “And _when_ we come home, you will be a woman grown ready to be wed.”  
  
He watches as her face changes, a look of familial joy to see her brother quickly replaced with a forced smile that her brother just shakes his head and tuts at.  
  
“You cannot remain a maid forever, sweet sister.” He declares with a kiss to her cheek. “And there will be many gallant lords who will fight for your hand. This will not be like the last time, however. Sansa chose her Dornish husband, and you shall pick yours.”  
  
His highness looks pleased with his command and Tommen catches Arya’s questioning eye with a barely concealed snort of laughter.   
  
“Anyone, Jon? My choice, truly?” She asks, and Jon looks even more pleased with this positive reaction; he had clearly been expecting more of a fight for having to marry at all from his second sister.   
  
“You seem happy to wed, Arya. What happened to tending to my wounded men and living at Winterfell forever?” Her brother teases and she blushes and this is a side of his betrothed (for Tommen cannot seem to separate Arya Stark from being his betrothed, no matter what the situation-it has been thus for so long) he has yet to see, that even with their few and very far between kisses he had only ever seen her blush once, and he decides now it is quite nice to see her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkle as she squirms, a feeble attempt to push down a smile on her lips to a frown.   
  
“I- well I was not sure I would be given choice, brother.” She responds, almost shy, and her brother frowns a little.   
  
“King Robert gave our mother no choice when you were betrothed to his son. I would return that to you, much like mother and father would have.” He says, voice firm, low, and Tommen watches as brother and sister communicate quietly through a shared look, so alike, dark, long features mirroring each other’s.  
  


* * *

  
  
He had balked, at first, the notion of playing nursemaid to the princess (he still smirks whenever he thinks of the girl he thinks a sister as fitting into that role of princess), escorting her to Winterfell when he could be of use _here_ with his friend, his King.   
  
He could make use of his father, cement the allegiance between the North and the Iron Islands-well, for what, really? The North. For Lady Eddara Stark, a woman who was cool and steely and with whom he was not in favour, a constant reminder of his father’s ambition, of her duty should his role as ward be fulfilled.   
  
It would be Jon she felt she was betraying, should Balon Greyjoy go back on his word.   
  
It would be Jon _he_ felt like he was betraying, should Balon Greyjoy go back on his word.   
  
It is Jon, his best friend, brother and King that keeps him from proposing once more that he go and bring back his father’s fleet. That cunt of a wife had stopped him from going, he knows it. Jon would have agreed, would have trusted him to go home and return, but it is that tall Queen of his whispering into his ear that stops him.   
  
_She likes you but does not trust you._   
  
She was an old whore who lied about her maidenhood to get into the bed of the future Lord Stark.   
  
But Jon loved her. And so Theon must hold his tongue.   
  
Jon is his King, and Wynafryd, his Queen.   
  
And Theon is nothing if not loyal to his friend, brother, King.   
  
“Are you not excited, Theon?” Arya had asked, leaning toward him over dinner. “It has been far too long since I was home. We should never have left for the South.”   
  
The smile in her grey eyes loses its luster as she realises that it is not just Winterfell she misses, but all that used to belong to it.   
  
“Aye, my princess,” he says, smirking as she jolts a little at the title. “I find myself drinking with joy at our return to the snows winter has brought.”  
  
“Drinking with _something_ in mind, at least.” She mutters and he barks with laughter as she grins up at him.   
  
They are to leave with the next sunrise, just a week shy of his sister’s nameday, and Theon surprises himself with actually remembering it in the first place. _Home_. They’re to go home, but not his own. Winterfell, Jon, Lord Kit even, had become his home without him realising his traitorous soul to his blood family that remained to him still, the salt and stone and iron that started to fade from his dreams far too quickly.  
  
“Theon!” His head jerks up as Arya calls his name, and it is as if the clouds in his mind have instantly cleared. She is not his family, no, but she is his princess, and Theon Greyjoy is nothing if not loyal to his King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to say this, but I cannot guarantee how fast I can get the next chapter out. Please know I have much planned out but I've just been going through a bit of a dry spell from writing right now due to work :(


	22. Let's Go For a Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, folks. And if you're still here, than thank you for sticking around! Honestly, this past year (!!) has been huge for me, and sadly, writing didn't come with all that big-ness. 
> 
> Anyway. Not quite sure what prompted this return, but hurrah! I finished a chapter. I want to say I intend on being more frequent with these, but I don't think I should make that promise right now.

It was hot.

The sun bore down on her cotton clad back as usual, it’s warmth taking time to turn to an uncomfortable, itchy heat, the thought of ants crawling up and down her spine making her shiver despite the heat. 

She looked around her, the land desolate and sparse, thriving in it’s own way to the environment it was given day in and day out. Her horse’s head hung low, panting in the heat, and Sansa scrunched her eyes closed in attempt to not cry out in misery. She was wilfully alone on this journey of hers, and by the gods did she feel it. Her water supply (now warm and heavy, stale almost) was soon to run out, and her lips crackled with pain with every brush of her tongue in attempt to soothe them. 

Sansa Stark did not think like her sister in preparation for this journey.

Sansa Stark did not think like her _mother_ in planning for this journey. 

For if she had done either of those, she would potentially be better stocked in her supplies. She might also have made sure to brush up on her outdoors skills, the ones her mama had barely touched upon with her, the young Sansa’s interest in playing Come Into My Castle being a dividing force between mother and daughter. 

 _I know how to survive in_ my _world_ , she thought, not daring to speak the words aloud. She hadn’t gone to such lengths as talking to a horse quite yet. _Yet my world is not what I was prepared for_. 

Sansa Stark was in trouble. 

* * *

He shivered against the dry air, chilled from the winds swooping over the hills and waters around them. 

“That’s coming in from the sea, that is.” Theon said, looking wistfully out beyond the trees to where the coast eventually would land. Tommen took in a breath and thought he might sense the hint of sea salt Lady Eddara’s ward was speaking of, but all he felt was a stinging cold rise up his nostrils and settling deep within his chest as Arya laughed beside him. 

“Don’t be stupid, Theon. We’re much too far from the sea - it’ll be coming from the rivers and mountains.”

“Oh, please do excuse me _princess_ \- I meant no offence to your…acute sense of direction…”

Tommen resisted the urge to groan. It wasn’t his place, his disguise as a cup bearer wearing thinner and thinner the further away they travelled from the King and Queen. He already shouldn’t be riding this close to Arya, but she had commanded him to stay near, and no one dared question her. 

Save Theon. 

Who, as soon as he realised he wouldn’t get a sound answer from the princess he treated like a sister, proceeded to engage her in what felt like a never ending contest of petty arguments between siblings, trading insults (that weren’t all that good, Tommen thought) and names as soon as one set the other off. 

Tommen was getting quite tired of it all, to be honest, doing his best to tune them out as they traversed the rolling lush green, the river a constant roar of nature as the chill in the air began to dig deeper and deeper into their cloaks, their clothing, seeping slowly into their skin. 

Or rather, _his_ skin. 

Arya didn’t seem to mind it too much, Theon as well. Tommen’s vague memory of his previous trip up to Winterfell, when things seemed much…easier are like a foggy dream. He followed-nay, he was pulled along by his parents up North, North where it was cold, where he didn’t really want to go, but Myrcella had given him an encouraging smile, and father had boomed about seeing his good friend Ned again. 

The cold is what he remembers most. The cold, being cut through with his mother’s rage like a knife. He didn’t know what it was at the time, but it’s most of what he remembers from the long journey. 

Well, that and the surprise at the man he had oft thought, oft been taught was an honorary uncle, was in fact, a woman. A woman who had effectively torn his family and life apart. A woman who’s daughter had spirited him away for her own purposes (though to confess, he was not about to start complaining, uncomfortable bedding aside). A woman who’s not-quite bastard son had declared himself a king and was willing to tear apart Tommen’s family to continue this farce. 

Because as young as people kept telling him he was, as naive as most thought he was, and as sheltered as he actually was, Tommen Baratheon had an idea about what was right and what was wrong. And it was _his_ father who was King, not Jon Stark. The North was not a separate entity, it was ruled by those at King’s Landing, and arrested mother or not, Jon Stark had no right to declare himself as such. 

It was treason, really. 

Arya’s snort of laughter brought his attention to Theon pulling back from a whispered jape in her ear, leaving Arya to try to muffle her enjoyment at his humour. Her eyes glanced over him, taking in the party around them, and Tommen allowed himself a small grin on her behalf. 

He knew right from wrong. Arya was wrong. Her whole family was wrong, no matter what house he might actually belong to. But Arya was Arya and she had been more than the reason for his survival thus far. 

And perhaps he could keep quiet his true beliefs, keep his tongue to see what would come of all this. 

Because despite everyone, himself included, knowing that he would be perhaps, the most surprising player in this game of thrones, Tommen had not been completely kept in the dark about the realities of this life, and though he might not be as cutthroat as others, his instincts to survive, to analyse, to assess, were strong. 

* * *

 

It was treason, really. 

She felt herself crumble inside a bit, the sound of his commanding voice, a voice meant to be King one day, announcing to all who could hear that he was Tommen Baratheon, son of the rightful King Robert, and that he had been taken from his home without his consent. 

But the sight of the red flags, the lions fluttering in the wind must have been too much, must have made him realise that she, Arya Stark, just was not worth the company to hold in return for a long journey North. 

The ruined debris within her all at once became a pillar to stand on, to rage from, to fight on and look down from as her- _her_ Tommen betrayed her. 

 _Coward_. 

She said as much, spitting. 

His eyes held firm, his lower lip quivering only slightly (she had made it quiver herself once, and oh, how she wanted to rip it to shreds at this moment) as he held his ground, standing next to a Lannister soldier and his mount, the Stark men outnumbered to ten to one.

_The little cunt._

Theon had had a previous, pleasurable thought to run the cup boy down when he first saw him leap from his horse, sprinting to the nearby Lannister camp that his scouts hadn’t the skill to track properly. It was only when Arya had shrieked out the boy’s name that Theon commanded a halt to outright killing the boy. 

The boy who was now standing with a garrison of red cloaks and gold lions, most believing the his words, and others only believing the command of their captain. 

“That’s the prince you’re calling coward, kidnapper,” the man snapped at Arya, “you’d best apologise to him before I take your hand.”

Arya looked ready to leap, to scratch, to stab, to _anything_ , but it was the black looming behind them that stopped her, stopped him, from moving toward the little fuck. 

“You’re not-“

“Aye,” the captain said, a smug look on his face, unsheathing a dagger while calmly slitting the Prince’s throat, a last gasp barely escaping before he fell to his knees, “we are the Iron Born. And you, Theon Greyjoy? We are here to take you home.”

He could barely hear Arya beside him - in fact, did she even make a sound? He’s never sure, thinking back - watching in shock as a woman so like his lost father stepped forward, the gold kraken proudly emblazoned on her chest. 

“Come, brother,” she commands, smiling at him like he had so often wished the Lady Eddara would when he was young, ten and missing his mother, far from home. “Come home.”

It’s Arya’s strangled yelp that breaks his gaze, and he looks to his right as his sister, his Princess, stares down at her belly, hands clasping onto the arrow deeply embedded into her gut. 

“Arya…”

She looks to him, and despite all the names, all the teasing, the pulling of hair, the light punches, scolding, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so…sad. 

“Theon,” she manages, more from shock than anything else, her voice as tiny as she was. He leaps from his horse, running to her as she slowly slides from her mount, her hold on the pommel of her saddle loose. He barely manages to catch her, his legs feel weak and his senses are barely registering the sea of blood and iron that now surrounds them. 

“Arya, no-“

“Theon…”

“Arya?”

“They…they shot me!”

And she is so incredulous, her cloak stained so brilliantly, her eyes seeming to burn with a dimming light that he has to laugh, if not a little. 

It is better than crying, after all. 

She’d never have forgiven him that. 

* * *

It is interesting, she thinks, what one can really get away with when none desire to look at you. 

Well, perhaps it is not her, but really her face. 

No, she debates, her face _is_ her, and -

“Shireen?” A sleepy voice jolts her out of her internal argument, and she twirls around sharply only to be met by a mess of brilliant red curls, a sleepy little face beneath it. 

“Robb,” she breathes, stilling her heart. “What are you doing out of bed, little one?” She looks around for Grey Wind, but he is no where to be seen. 

“I was tired,” he yawns, arms stretching above his head to be picked up, and Shireen smiles a little. 

“If you were so tired, then how did you wake?” She counters, deliberately taking his hand and leading him back towards his room instead of picking him up - really, he was far too big now, and she had not the strength to hold him on her hip as a mother would. 

Well, as a mother _should_. 

Stop it, Shireen. The Lady Eddara, as far as she was concerned, was not truly at fault. Though as her lord father firmly stated, she coordinated events that went behind her King’s back against the rest of the royal family. 

He had such a finality to his voice that she knew not to even try to bring up the…tale the King’s Hand had used to excuse her actions. 

“Baby was all loud,” he grumps up at her, looking fairly peeved that he hasn’t been picked up, yet grateful for the hand that is leading him back to bed nonetheless. 

“Ah, the babe. You mean _Rickon_ , Robb. You remember…”

Robb just screws up his little tired face, and Shireen decides to hold off on any lectures of familial loyalty this late at night. 

“Come, let’s fetch Neema to see if she can help soothe him back to sleep,” she suggests. “it will be an adventure?” she tries, and to her relief, the little boy is placated, if only a little. 

It is much later, when Robb is tucked back in his bed, asleep, that Shireen thinks on whether she can salvage her night’s wanderings. 

She returns to her perch, her silk slippers in one hand as her night skirts whisper ever so softly against the stone floor; she is a ghost in her own home, quiet as a mouse and fluid like the oils her handmaids weave through her long hair. 

No one but her is there, and she almost wants to curse little Robb Stark and his wandering sleep. Rumours and murmurs had lead her here, and she so dearly wished to figure out who was meeting whom so late in the dark and _why_. 

Perhaps, she thinks, closing her eyes with a grimace as a hand closed over her mouth, Shireen Baratheon is not quite as invisible as she thought. 

* * *

_Whoosh, whoosh_.

A gull cried out and a searing pain stabbed at his head to wake him. Before he could register where the fuck he was, a door slammed open. 

Asha. 

“Come, Theon.”

And rather shamefully, he blindly obeys, following her out of the little swaying room, and onto the deck of the ship he was now swaying on. 

The crew weren’t looking at them as they emerged, all busy with their own work, but none dared go near the little body laid out in the middle of the deck. Theon dove towards it, pulling back the muslin cloth from it’s head and could not swallow a whimper. 

“She was good as dead when we left camp, Theon,” Asha says softly behind him. “Put up a right royal fuss when you…” she trails off, and Theon knows exactly who it was who knocked him out. 

He touches her face, suddenly so smooth and cold. It isn’t her, it was never who she was, his little Princess sister, all tangles and rough edges mixed in with the occasional rude word she had never the gall to mutter in front of her lord and lady parents. 

“The-the wolf-?” He manages, squeezing the int forearm folded over her chest, as if she were to wake any moment to the pressure. 

“The Drowned God knows the beast now.” she replies and to him it’s the last hurdle before he chokes, his back heaving. “Don’t make a fool of yourself, Theon,” she admonishes, leaving him. 

* * *

 

It’s bright, but not, somehow. 

Eyes flutter open to green, leaves high above in the sky, branches swaying gently in the breeze to relieve the heat. 

Sweet Gods, old and new-! 

She, Sansa Stark, had made it. 

Ok, granted, she may have passed out astride her mount at one point, but nonetheless! It was unmistakeable. 

 _The Reach_. 


End file.
